


I've Got a Name

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I don't know what I'm going to do with this, M/M, Soulmate AU, kind of an experiment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 49,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John Watson knew Sherlock was his soulmate, but didn't want to tell him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not Britpicked, self-Beta'd. Any grammatical and/or spelling errors are completely my fault.

“What the hell kind of a name is Sherlock?” John Watson asked as he shared the last of the day-old birthday cake with his sister Harriet.

“How the hell should I know?” his sister replied through a mouthful of frosting.

“I dunno, you know everything?” John said, sarcasm dripping from the words. Harriet, who hated using her given name and insisted everyone call her Harry, was four years older than John at 20, lived on her own, and generally thought she knew better than John about just about everything.

“Don’t give me that,” Harry retorted, opening her second bottle of beer. “Want one?” she offered, tipping the bottle toward her little brother.

“Yeah, thanks.” John took a bottle from the fridge and popped it open, taking a long pull before setting it down on the table next to his empty plate.

“So, your Name is Sherlock,” Harry said, studiously keeping the waiting smirk off her face.

“That’s what I said,” John replied. When the name had been revealed to him upon waking the previous morning, he’d just about had a conniption fit. And the question he’d voiced to his sister had been the one circling his brain for nearly forty-eight hours now.

“Well,” Harry said carefully, “how do you think this Sherlock feels, knowing that the name John is one of the most common names in all of Britain?"

“Maybe they don’t know yet. Maybe they’re younger than me.”

“Or older,” Harry reminded her brother. “Maybe they’ve been stalking every John they know, trying to find you.”

“Why couldn’t it have been an easy name, you know, like Mary. Sure there are lots of them, but at least I’d know it was a girl.”

“Ah.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant, Harry.”

When Harry’s Name had been revealed to be Clara on her sixteenth birthday, it had been a huge disappointment to their religiously conservative parents. They'd sent her to the 'Platonic Soulmate' therapists, made her attend services every Sunday and Wednesday nights for two years. John had never talked to Harry about those experiences, but he could see the toll they took on her. She'd been much happier after moving out at eighteen.

“I know. And I know you’d hate to disappoint Mum and Da. Good little John,” Harry said. “I wonder if they’d be as easygoing if both their offspring were...well.” Harry grinned at her little brother.

“So you think Sherlock is a girl’s name?” John asked, a note of hopeful desperation creeping into his voice.

“Maybe,” Harry said, “But it would have to be the daughter of a pair of recovering hippies.”

John wiped a hand down his face, pulling on his chin.

“Well, I suppose I’d better start looking for her then.”

“You know that’s not how it works,” Harry said. “Even if her name was Minerva Louise, you’d never find her if you were looking. Always happens when you least expect it. That’s the rule.”

“Dammit, Harry,” John said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling for a beat. He knew that's how it worked. But the more people you told your Name, the better the chances were of finding them. John wasn't at all sure how many people he wanted to tell his Name to. “I wonder how long I’ll have to wait.”

 

*******

 

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. The sun streamed into his bedroom through the yellow curtains, casting a warm glow in the room despite the frigid temperatures outside.

_I actually did get to sleep_ , he thought, surprised.

JOHN

The name came into his mind, unbidden.

JOHN

“Ah,” Sherlock said aloud in the empty room.

JOHN

JOHN

Sherlock shook his head, black curls falling into his eyes. _Yes, yes I understand_ , he thought, and the ringing name faded into his memory.

Today was Sherlock Holmes’ sixteenth birthday. And upon waking, just like everyone else in the world, the Name of his soulmate had been revealed. He’d been secretly hoping to wake up to silence. Caring, as his brother was so fond of telling him, was not an advantage. Sherlock wasn’t even sure his brother had a Name revealed to him. Being eight years his senior, it wasn’t something Mycroft spoke of.

Regardless, a Name had been revealed to Sherlock although its revelation had been all but useless. John was the most common name in most English speaking countries, and since no surnames were revealed it was impossible to know if the name was that of John Brenner, a year older than Sherlock and a fellow student at his rather prestigious boarding school, or their neighbor's son John McCready who had just last month celebrated his tenth birthday, although he highly doubted either. Likely it was a John he had yet to meet, seeing as how all Johns he was currently acquainted with were complete and utter idiots, even taking into account McCready’s age.

There was a sudden banging on Sherlock’s door.

“C’mon, Sherlock. It’s your birthday!”

Sherlock scowled. He did not want company this morning, although he should have been expecting it. Everybody wanted to know if the freak got a Name.

“Open up, arsehole, before we pick the bloody lock!”

That lovely sentiment was bellowed by none other than David Purcy, thug and all around bully. The brute wouldn't have been able to pick the lock on an interior closet door, let alone the lock on Sherlock's dorm. But, what Purcy wanted, Purcy got and Sherlock did not want to be responsible for a damaged door. Purcy happened to be the surname of the Dean, and his son could do no wrong.

“Hang on a mo,” Sherlock replied, trying for words that would actually be comprehensible to the apes baning on his door. Sherlock threw on a dressing gown and belted it snugly around his waist, then shoved his over-long feet into his house slippers and padded to the door, taking at least fifteen extra seconds to undo the lock.

Six boys poured into the room, nearly ending up in a pile on the floor. Of the six, two were tolerable: Sebastian and Victor. The other four were hairless apes with over-active hormones and no class, whose leader was the ever-popular Purcy.

“Alright, so, happy birthday,” Purcy growled, “Now out with it.”

“With what?” Sherlock asked. He knew very well what they were after. It was the general topic of discussion whenever they weren’t talking about school-related things. The Name.

“God, could you be any more stupid?” Purcy bellowed, rolling his shoulders in annoyance.

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock replied. “Could you?”

Purcy’s face registered a blank stare as he tried to figure out if he’d been insulted or not. It was then that Victor, precious Victor who had been Sherlock’s only unwavering ally during his years here, elbowed his way to the front of the group.

“What was the Name?” he asked in a hushed tone.

“Oh, that. Didn't get one.” Sherlock's voice was low, and Purcy didn't hear. Victor really didn't deserve the lie, but Sherlock would be _damned_ if he would tell the apes. Besides, the name was so common, the odds were decidedly not in Sherlock's favor. And who would ever admit to being his soulmate anyway? He knew he was different, so different that even the two people who said they were his friends were upset by him on a regular basis. Whether or not the others wanted to gossip about their Names, Sherlock decidedly did not.

Victor’s face faltered for a moment, which Sherlock noted, before Purcy decided that he had, in fact, been insulted.

“I’m gonna…I’m gonna fix you good one of these days, freak. You won’t know when, and you won’t know where, but I’m gonna fix you once and for all.”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He wanted to shut up, really. It would only antagonize the ape further to speak and it wasn’t something that Sherlock wanted to do particularly. He’d like to push them all out and have a conversation with Victor. But the words came out before he could stop them.

“Well, considering your usual ‘fixing’ locations are either behind the gymnasium or the greenhouse, I can assume those will be the locations I should avoid. At least for the next few weeks. In approximately four weeks, if I have not arrived at a sufficient location, which I can assure you I will do my utmost to avoid, your hired thugs will manhandle me into the location of your choice at which time you will attempt to punch me repeatedly. It would be highly ambitious of you to think you could overpower me in such a way. I’m faster than you.”

And that was how Sherlock Holmes ended up at the discipline office at eight thirty in the morning on his sixteenth birthday. Purcy, however, was in the nurse’s room with an icebag over one eye, cursing.


	2. Meeting Your Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stolen right out of SiP, but...

John wasn’t sure who he was going to meet when he followed Mike Stamford back to Bart’s that day, but it certainly didn’t include this man, this very tall, very lean man who had known about his military service without anyone breathing a word of it. The man who had, intentionally or not John wasn’t sure, insulted a rather pretty lady without so much as batting an eye. Mike sat there, grinning like a loon, enjoying the scene play out. Like it was exactly what he’d expected.

“We’ll meet tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash - I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John frowned, turning toward the man in disbelief.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

John was beginning to feel a bit exasperated, but at the same time it was intriguing, this man who seemed to know so much.

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name,” John said, the realization dawning on him as he said the words. The prayer came to John unbidden.  _Please, dear God, please not a man._

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

John felt his face go slack, as the man clicked his tongue and winked as he swept out of the room. All these years, all this time… He felt for a chair, falling into it heavily as Mike came around, concern suddenly in his eyes.

“John? John, are you okay?”

“Mike, what's your Name?” John asked, carefully, quietly.

“Gloria. Found her three years ago. Why?”

“How many Sherlocks do you know?”

“John? What do you mean, John?”

He didn’t want to say it. It was too unbelievable, too coincidental. But that was the way of these things, wasn’t it. That’s what Harry had said, nearly twenty years ago now, that it would happen when he was least expecting it. Well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting it today.

“Sherlock is my Name,” John whispered, and his right hand came up to cover his face.

“Oh my God,” Mike said. “I honestly don’t know whether to say ‘congratulations’ or ‘I’m sorry.’”

John stared at his friend, his eyes wide, mouth slightly slack.

“What I mean, is,” Mike went on quickly, “is that Sherlock is, well he’s different, isn’t he? And he’s not to everyone’s taste. But if that’s your name…”

“Must be my taste,” John finished for him, slowly massaging his temples as this information sank in. “I don’t have to tell him, do I?”

“Well, no, but…”

“John’s a really common name. He probably knows loads of them.”

“That’s…John, you wouldn’t really lie about this, would you?” It was Mike’s turn to look shocked.

“No, I’m a crap liar and I know it. But that doesn’t mean I have to willingly divulge the information, does it?”

“John, I think this is a really bad idea. I mean, you might be living with this man.”

“No, I will be living with him. As long as the flat’s decent. You were right, I can’t leave London.”

“Then you have to tell him.”

“I will, just… just not right away.” John sighed. It was all so complicated.

 

******

 

The gravel samples were about to drive Sherlock Holmes mad. There had to have been something on that path to make Jack walk near the edge of the pond. It was in the next to last sample that Sherlock struck gold. Green paint. Couldn’t be anything else. He was about to reach for his phone when the door opened. It was Mike Stamford, who should be here this time of day, and a second man, who most certainly shouldn’t. Well, this should be interesting.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” This was a very typical conversation between them, and Sherlock was expecting the answer.

“And what’s wrong with the land line?”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said. Which was true, and Mike knew it. They went back and forth like this at least once a week, and he always asked the same asinine question.

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Mike replied. Sherlock considered this. It may or may not be true, but wasn’t worth the hassle. He could text Lestrade when he left the lab.

“Er, here, take mine.”

Sherlock glanced at this stranger Mike had brought into the lab. Former military, that much was obvious, invalided home if that limp was anything to go by, and…

“Oh. Thank you.”

Tan lines, so most likely Afghanistan or Iraq.

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said, and Sherlock felt a few gears strip in his head. John. Sherlock always had that shot of adrenaline when he heard the name, but after years of being disappointed, he wasn’t as interested as he might have been. But, it never hurt to put on a little show, did it? Sherlock began slowly, with an obvious question.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

Oh dear, he was an idiot. But then practically everyone was.

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how…?”

Sherlock grinned with the side of his lips that John Watson can’t see. He wasn’t upset that Sherlock had asked, merely confused. That was promising. More than promising, in fact. Sherlock wondered how far he could push the point before it got him punched. Molly, of course, interrupted with the coffee, which was bloody awful, and she’d changed her mouth again. Why did she keep doing that? Sherlock had never, not once, indicated that he was remotely interested in her, and yet she kept trying. Although, to be fair Sherlock hadn't told her his Name. He'd told nobody his Name save Victor, who had been completely inconsolable until his own sixteenth birthday. Victor's Name had been Nathan. Molly's Name couldn't be Sherlock, could it? Did that ever happen? The idea gave him chills.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked apropos of nothing after Molly left.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” Sherlock took the time to stare at John directly as he delivered the next sentence. It would be the most telling.

“Would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other.” Shots fired, how would he react?

He looked at Mike instantly and decided that he’d told Sherlock about the arrangement. Of course Mike hadn’t said anything. What nonsense.

“Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.” Next shots fired. Sherlock picked up his Belstaff and swirled into it. He loved the flair of it, made him feel important and admired, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Got my eye on a place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.” Sherlock nearly laughed aloud. He didn’t need a flatmate for the rent, he needed it because Mycroft had threatened to force him to live with Mummy if he didn’t find a flatmate to ‘look after him.’ And it was a real threat, too, because he could make him persona non grata for any potential landlord, even if he had gotten their husbands put on death row.

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” Of course, Sherlock didn’t need the riding crop at the moment, and he knew Molly would make sure it was put away, but it did make an impression to mention a riding crop in casual conversation, didn’t it?

“Is that it?” John asked, and Sherlock could tell he was just a teensy bit irritated with him, but also unabashedly curious. It made him want to smile.

“Is that what?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name!”

Ah. Yes, sometimes that was an issue, he forgot that normal people didn't just know things.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said and noted the color draining from John’s face. Interesting reaction to a name. Was it possible? Well, he could find out later. “And the address is 221B Baker Street.” Sherlock decided that he should be extra dramatic, and did this ridiculous click-wink thing that he’d used more than once on female informants. He wondered briefly, on his way to the mortuary, if it had been too much. But if he’d read John correctly, the man would be at Baker Street tomorrow exactly on time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's thoughts while looking for the pink case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More experiments. This time focusing on Sherlock

Sherlock had been right, John had been at the flat on time, been suitably impressed with it (aside from the mess, but he could clean that up later), and had taken immediately to Mrs. Hudson. In his defense, Mrs. Hudson was immensely likable if a bit of a… flibberty gibbet. And sometimes she was a bit nosey.

Sherlock was slightly amused at her assuming he and John were soulmates, but it was a reasonable conclusion. It made Sherlock a bit uncomfortable thinking about the long-term implications of John Watson actually being his soulmate. It was one thing to show off in front of a stranger who simply had the Name. It was another to actually contemplate what he would do with him. Now, Sherlock was not naive. He knew perfectly well what sex was and how it was accomplished. Occasionally it was an aspect of a case, and he needed to have a ‘working knowledge’ of such things. Didn’t mean he’d been interested in having it himself. Messy, rather awkward, distracting. But sex was part of the bonding process for soulmates. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about that, or the sentimental attachment associated with the connection. Of course, perhaps he was mulling this over for no reason. He’d deduced exactly fifty-six men named John in the sixteen years since he’d first had his Name revealed. This would merely be number fifty-seven.

Perhaps that was why he had returned to the flat to ask John to accompany him to the crime scene. Although, he was an Army doctor and might have a few insights in that capacity. And Sherlock required an assistant. Well, not really an assistant, but he did require an audience.

It was the cab ride to the crime scene, though, that really got Sherlock thinking about soulmates in a more-than-abstract fashion. He always hesitated to elucidate his deductions. It made everything seem like a party trick instead of a mysterious power of his mind. Dull. But John hadn’t been upset or annoyed when he’d explained. He’d been amazed. Said so, even. ‘That was amazing.’ He was the first person ever to say something positive about Sherlock’s deductive abilities.

And it hadn’t stopped in the cab, either. Apparently Sherlock was so impressive John couldn’t help but say quite complimentary things about him. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but it was nice to have an appreciative audience for a change.

Now he was sifting through skips trying to find Jennifer Wilson’s case.

_Where is it, where is it?_ Sherlock repeated to himself as he pulled reeking bin liners out of yet another skip. He’d been out here for almost thirty minutes, and hadn’t yet found where the murderer had stashed it. It had to be here. Somewhere. There were approximately sixteen skips in the search area, and he’d searched them in the order of likelihood of use. This was number five, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d prioritized them incorrectly. There was always something. But it didn’t matter, it had to be in one of them.

Sherlock dashed to the next skip and threw open the lid. There, lying right on top as if to mock him, was the case, pink as he expected. Sherlock grinned and lifted the case out of the skip, holding it over his head for maybe half a second too long.

_Brilliant._

Sherlock looked around, but there was nobody there.

_That’s fantastic!_

Sherlock frowned, lowering the case.

“Her phone should be in here.” Sherlock set the case on the puddled pavement of the alley and began to unzip it.

_Sherlock?_

“Should examine it at Baker Street. John?”

Sherlock looked around, but he was alone in the alley. Had John not followed him? How odd. Well, perhaps he was already back at the flat waiting for him. Sherlock dashed to Brixton High Road and flagged down a passing cab. As he climbed inside, he realized that he’d been expecting John to follow. Why had he been expecting him to follow? Nobody else followed him around like that. But John didn’t strike him as being like other people. He was decidedly different.

JOHN

The name echoed in the back of Sherlock’s brain, refusing to remain dormant. So, Sherlock brought it forward, considering. True, John’s face had gone white when Sherlock had given his name. What reasons would there be for that to happen aside from a Name match? Option one was that John had somehow heard Sherlock’s name previously and knew his reputation with law enforcement as a ‘freak.’ No. Impossible, given his later reactions at the flat, and his admission that he’d googled him. Option two, perhaps a health-related fit. Unlikely, since his most obvious symptoms were psychosomatic, but an outside possibility. Option three was that Sherlock was his Name match and John was either astonished or upset in some way. How did people normally react when they found their Name match? Sherlock suddenly wished he’d paid attention to those rare occasions when he’d been present at a Name match, but he’d never thought his John would materialize.

The taxi arrived at Baker Street with Sherlock having yet to decide what he wanted to do about the unusual doctor, but knowing he’d like very much to continue the association. Which had surprised him, because it was an association that should, by rights, be purely functionary. Well, he could still be useful. Sherlock smirked to himself as he let himself into the flat.

First things first, he had to go through the case, find the phone. He was almost certain it was a phone, although it could be something a bit more outdated. But she was a stylish lady and that sense of style was most likely continued to her personal electronics. _The phone is probably pink, too_ , Sherlock thought with a grin. He’d find out soon enough.

Sherlock dug through the case, searching thoroughly into each pocket, once coming up with a rather more personal item than he expected. She must have been meeting one of her lovers here in London. But after he’d been through every pocket, searched every potential nook and cranny, the phone was nowhere to be found. He flung himself back in his chair with an annoyed huff. In the next instant he was on his feet. If the phone wasn’t here, where was the next most likely place for it to be? Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a half-grin. He grabbed his phone. He’d need someone with a phone number that wasn’t posted on their website.

Baker Street.

Come at once if convenient. - SH

The text written and sent, Sherlock stalked to the kitchen and began rummaging around in one of the cabinets. He came out with a box of nicotine patches and pulled three out, shoving the box back into a different cabinet than the one it had come out of. He ripped one open and plastered it to his forearm, pressing it against his skin so the nicotine transferred faster. It would take several minutes for full effect, but it was a start. He took the other two patches back to the couch. Before he lay down, he sent another text.

If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH

He tossed a cushion to one end of the couch and flopped down, eyes closing and hands coming to rest steepled under his chin. It would be showing his hand to outright text the murderer, perhaps there was a better option. It required some thought. Why was John not responding to his texts?

Sherlock frowned, willing the silly question out of his mind. It didn’t matter if John answered his texts, he could use Mrs. Hudson’s phone if pressed.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed, then listened for the landlady’s steps on the stairs. When it didn’t happen, he bellowed again. Nothing. Oh well, it was worth a shot. Sherlock grabbed his phone one last time. The promise of danger had gotten him to the crime scene in the first place, it would probably bring him to Baker Street now.

Could be dangerous. - SH

Useful. Yes. John would be useful. Names be damned. Sherlock settled himself back on the couch and ripped open another patch, pressing it onto his arm an inch away from the first. He didn’t have time for Names, he was about to one-up the Yard again. Make Donovan look inept. It didn’t matter what Sherlock did, Anderson would never appear competent. It was a freak of bureaucracy that he’d kept his job this long. Didn’t matter. Minor irritant easily dealt with. But now, the problem of how his killer was abducting victims in broad daylight surrounded by throngs of people. _That_ was a mystery, a little problem, he could set his mind to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John does some thinking. And then they go to Angelo's.
> 
> Thank you to arianedevere for her work on the transcripts, which have made my life SO much easier.

John had tried to rationalize why he’d returned to 221B after his strange meeting with a man who called himself Sherlock’s arch-enemy. Nobody had arch-enemies in real life, it was absurd. Who was this man whose name he’d been thinking about for twenty years? Of course, the person attached to the name was decidedly _not_ who inhabited John’s daydreams and fantasies. Sherlock there had been something of a free spirited woman, sometimes with long dark hair and sometimes with short blonde hair, but always smiling and laughing. John had plotted out the story of his Name match countless times. Bumping into her doing the shopping, maybe she was a fellow student at Bart’s. While he was in Afghanistan, he wondered if Sherlock was an Afghani woman. It was a crazy idea, but he’d just about given up hope of ever finding her by that point.

John had chalked it up to self-defense. He’d seen Harry’s descent into depression when her Name had been revealed. The convenient fiction that Sherlock must, obviously, be a girl’s name became truth. And while John had always suspected that wasn’t the case, it was an easy lie to tell himself. He did his best not to tell anyone else. John was a crap liar. Mike had been the first person he’d told in over a decade, easily. And only then because his reaction would never have made much sense otherwise and he needed someone to know, even if it wasn’t his actual soulmate.

John wondered sometimes if there was something broken inside him that he would have a man’s name as a soulmate. Growing up hearing that same-sex soulmates were a sign from God that your soul was somehow incomplete and unworthy of a procreative mate didn’t just vanish overnight. It didn’t matter that he knew, from everywhere else except his family, that wasn’t the case. He’d read articles and interviews about how the Name revelation was a biological function built into the human brain when it reached a certain age. He read horror stories of ‘platonic therapy' and the rift it caused between mates. He read reports on the bonding process and how sex was integral to a true bond with your soulmate. And as he read, he was certainly glad he’d chosen general practice over psychology.

He’d spent so much time denying the possibility that now he was confronted with it, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. Well, he knew he wanted to run away, but that wasn’t likely. It wasn’t fair to Sherlock for one thing, and he would not go to Harry. Where else was there to go but back to the bedsit? And he knew what lay there: nightmares, boredom, taking his gun out of its drawer every other day just to stare at it like it had all the answers.

Sherlock was anything but boring. John’s lips quirked in a smile as he thought about what he’d witnessed earlier that evening in Brixton. John pulled out his phone again and pulled up the last text he’d received.

Could be dangerous. - SH

No, Sherlock Holmes was _not_ boring.

The big black car pulled up to the entrance of his bedsit and John lumbered inside, yanking open the desk drawer and pulling out the pistol. Illegal pistol. The one he’d managed to smuggle with him while the Army was too busy trying to assign him a therapist. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers, pulling his coat down low to disguise the lump. Dangerous indeed.

*****

John stumped up the stairs to 221B to find Sherlock lying on the couch pressing something against his arm. Turned out to be nicotine patches, three of them. John wasn’t sure what a three-patch problem was until the detective had begun talking, had John send a text to the murderer, and had invited him along for the chase. And had actually slowed down so that John, with his bad leg, could keep up. A bag of contradictions, this one.

Sherlock held the door for John as they entered the restaurant. They were shown to a table at the window with a ‘reserved’ sign on it, and John studied Sherlock again for a few seconds. Had he made a reservation at this restaurant? Was this for the case, or was this…something else?

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street,” Sherlock said, nodding through the window. _Oh, so it is for the case_ , John thought with relief. “Keep your eyes on it.”

“He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d have to be mad,” John replied.

“He has killed four people.”

“Right,” John said after a moment. Sure, killing four people probably bought your membership into the ‘crazy train’ club.

Just then a man, with a black beard and hair, came over to the table and shook Sherlock’s hand.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house for you and…” he paused, looking at the detective quizzically.

“Angelo, this is John Watson. Colleague of mine.” John’s shoulders relaxed at that.

John shook Angelo’s proffered hand.

“This man got me off a murder charge,” Angelo said brightly. _Well, that would explain the reserved table_ , John thought as he picked up a menu and began perusing it, rather astonished at the prices.

“Anything happening opposite?” Sherlock asked, indicating the building across the road.

“Nothing.”

Angelo turned to John again, grinning. “But for this man, I would have gone to prison!”

“You _did_ go to prison,” Sherlock said quietly, and John smirked into his menu. “Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

Angelo shrugged, and walked back to the kitchen leaving John and Sherlock alone.

“Go ahead and eat. We may have a long wait.”

“Aren’t you going to have something?”

Sherlock shook his head, keeping his eyes glued to the building across the street.

Angelo returned to take John’s order, Sherlock declining. Angelo looked a bit put out, John thought, but said nothing. He sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Sherlock watch Twenty-two Northumberland Street. His eyes were completely focused on his objective. There was something about the curve of his neck as he stared out the window that made John shift uncomfortably in his seat and avert his eyes. John was not blind. He could appreciate a handsome man, and Sherlock was that indeed. But to have something so specific draw his attention, in that way, was disconcerting. Always had been. Was that how it began, then, the bonding? Even if they hadn’t spoken the Names aloud to each other? He supposed it could, if the chemical bonding theory was correct, where soulmate bonding was determined by scent and biological reactions to the individual hormones in the mates’ bodies. Thinking that his body was betraying his secret made him itchy.

The food arrived, and John tucked in. It was delicious.

“Sure you’re not going to have some?” John asked. Sherlock had been completely silent in his vigil for the past thirty minutes, and John was becoming concerned.

“No, thank you. Never eat when I’m on a case,” Sherlock replied easily, his eyes remaining fixed on the building.

John peered at Sherlock, his eyebrows descending in thought for a moment before shrugging. If he wanted to miss out on this, let him. John was going to eat. As he ate, though, his thoughts returned to his odd ‘kidnapping’ from earlier in the evening. Shit like that did not happen in real life, and it was beginning to bother him.

“People don’t have arch-enemies,” he began. “In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen.”

“Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull.” Sherlock dismissed John’s statement and returned his attention out the window.

“So who did I meet?”

Sherlock ignored John’s question and asked one of his own, “What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives?’”

“Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don’t like…” John swallowed hard, debating for a moment whether to proceed. Maybe Sherlock would just deduce it out of him, leave all the awkward ‘hey this is crazy,’ speeches out of it. “Mates.”

“Yes, as I was saying, dull.”

“You’re not... bonded then?” John asked, then immediately regretted it. Of course he wouldn’t be bonded, not if he was looking for a flatshare.

“No, not… not really my area.” Sherlock said, giving John a curious look.

“Oh,” John replied, shifting the food around on the plate for a moment before an idea forced its way into his muddled brain. “Oh, I’m so sorry, didn’t think. I just assumed you’ve a Name and…”

“I do. Have a Name.”

“Oh! Well, that’s good, then. Best of luck,” John said. Wishing someone luck in finding their soulmate was customary and it just sort of slipped from John’s mouth before he could stop it. It implied that the other person did not have your Name, which was not what John had intended at all. He may not want to _tell_ Sherlock his Name, but that didn't mean he wanted to imply that it wasn't him. Which was so convoluted. God, why couldn't he be  _normal_? Sherlock’s gaze flipped immediately back to the building across the street. A few moments later, he leaned forward in his seat.

“Look across the street. Taxi.”

John turned around in his seat to see, noticing the taxi stopped directly in front of the building they’d mentioned in the text.

“Stopped. Nobody getting in, nobody getting out. Why a taxi?” Sherlock’s voice dropped, “Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?”

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock said, obviously staring at the taxi himself.

“You’re staring,” John said pointedly.

“We can’t both stare,” Sherlock said in that condescending tone. The ‘you idiot’ was implied.

Before John had a chance to think up a witty retort to that, Sherlock was on his feet, swirling into his coat, and bolting out the door. John shoved himself out from behind the table and was off after him like a shot completely forgetting his cane _and_ his limp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome! This is something of an experiment for me, so I'd like to know what everyone thinks!


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock led them on a merry chase through the alleyways and across the rooftops around Northumberland Street. One of the reasons he’d chosen the address, aside from Angelo giving him a window seat, had been his intimate knowledge of the area. It made for the foot chase of a taxi all the more plausible. Unfortunately it was a dead end. Ah well. Sherlock had spent at least a few moments admiring John. He hadn’t had any strenuous physical exercise since he’d returned from Afghanistan, and his ability to keep up with Sherlock’s much longer legs was splendid. He’d texted Angelo as they were walking away from the taxi to bring John’s cane to the flat.

The pair tumbled through the door to 221B and leaned against the wall, panting and giggling. Sherlock studied John in this moment intensely, noting how relaxed and pleased he was, how the tension seemed to have dissipated and they just were. No masks, no etiquette, nobody else around to see. John caught his breath and looked up at Sherlock curiously. Sherlock knew he was staring, but couldn’t quite look away. John blinked and held his gaze, almost as though he were willing Sherlock to deduce something. But that would be silly. There was little more Sherlock could deduce about the man, and John had all but told the detective that his Name didn’t match. Then why was he so interested in this man?

John ran his tongue over his lower lip. It was an unconscious gesture on his part, Sherlock knew that. But it made his breath catch. He decided that reaction would be cataloged and dealt with later. Preferably when he was alone. Sherlock saw that John kept glancing at his lips, the doctor’s eyes dropping from his own every few moments. Sherlock did not know why he wanted to reach out and touch John’s cheek, but he held the impulse in check. It was another thing to analyze later.

The knock on the door made them both jump. John turned to answer it, and found Angelo standing on the stoop outside. He held John’s cane in his hand, and grinned.

“Sherlock texted me. Said you forgot this.” Angelo handed the cane over and John took it sheepishly. Sherlock smiled as John turned to him in amazement. He realized that this was a genuine smile and that he was truly glad that John had left his cane at the restaurant. That he had helped John in some way. He tucked this away for future analyzing, too. Normally he didn’t give two shits what happened to those around him, save the criminals he sought and the cadavers he investigated. This John seemed to be the exception. It made him want to re-evaluate the conversation they’d had at Angelo’s a little less than twenty minutes ago. That was another project for later. There were lots of things he would do…later.

As John closed the door, still calling thanks out to Angelo, Mrs. Hudson stepped tentatively into the hall, worrying her hands.

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with concern.

“Upstairs,” the landlady said, gesturing with her eyes. Sherlock took off up the stairs, taking them two at a time, bursting into the flat with John right behind him. The flat was a right disaster, police officers everywhere, with Detective Inspector Lestrade in the middle of it all, sitting in Sherlock’s chair.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded of Lestrade, who calmly looked up at the consulting detective.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid.”

“And you can’t break into my flat.”

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.” Lestrade sat serenely in the chair.

“What do you call this, then?” Sherlock nearly bellowed, throwing his arms out, indicating the myriad of officers that were now inside his flat.

Lestrade cast his eyes around, then gave Sherlock a bored smile.

“It’s a drugs bust.”

“Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?” John stalked to the detective inspector, who stood slowly, a knowing smirk creeping onto his face. Sherlock had the decency to at least look embarrassed.

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

Sherlock hated for John to make more of a fool of himself than he already had. He reached out a hand and placed it on John’s shoulder.

“John, you probably want to shut up. Now.”

“But come on…” John’s voice faded as he registered the intensely serious tone of Sherlock’s expression.

Sherlock could see the disappointment all over John’s face, and it shamed him. The reaction was immediate and intensely uncomfortable. What was it about this man? If he wasn’t Sherlock’s Name match, then what was he? Some cruel joke the universe wanted to play on him? Sherlock usually scoffed at the notion that the universe had a sentient aspect, but in this instance, perhaps, it had made an exception.

 

*****

 

John wasn’t sure what was more shocking: the police in his flat (it was already his flat, wasn’t it?) the fact that Sherlock had admitted to being a drug addict or the gooseflesh that rose on his arms when Sherlock had placed his hand on John’s shoulder. John was certain that he and Sherlock had already begun to bond in the hallway downstairs. He was both pleased and annoyed that Angelo had interrupted. There was a part of him that wanted to rip the plaster off and get it over with, because obviously he had the right person. But there was another part of him, a small part to be certain but powerful, that said ‘wait and see.’ And John was certainly not going to announce his Name match in a room full of strange police officers.

Sherlock began arguing with Lestrade, both of them in a pissing contest that Sherlock couldn’t hope to win. Sherlock, for all his massive intellect, really didn’t seem to understand people. A point that became painfully obvious when Lestrade began talking about Jennifer’s daughter, Rachel. John wasn’t sure if he felt sorry for Sherlock or envied him his obliviousness.

“Why would she still be upset?”

John gave the detective a look that could only be interpreted as shock. He was shocked. It was painful to watch Sherlock struggle to understand why Jennifer would still mourn her stillborn child fourteen years later.

“Not good?” Sherlock said, after he’d noticed the rest of the room fall silent.

“Bit not good, yeah.” John replied, eying Sherlock. The detective approached John now, invading his personal space.

“But if you were dying…if you’d been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?”

“’Please God, let me live,’” John responded flatly, pushing away the fear and pain associated with those words.

“Oh, use your imagination!” Sherlock bellowed, and John wanted to shout at him, wanted to punch him in the face for being an insensitive arsehole. Instead, he balled his hands into fists and shoved them hard into his pockets. When he spoke it was the measured, quiet tones of the truly furious.

“I don’t have to.”

John saw Sherlock pause, saw the gears shift and the connection made, and he supposed that was something. He wasn’t sure what. Sherlock turned away and began talking to the whole room again.

“Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever.” Sherlock said.

“Wait, what?” Lestrade stopped Sherlock in mid-pace. “What do you mean, lovers?”

Sherlock sighed audibly, irritation showing on his face.

“Her mate died, maybe ten years ago judging by the state of her ring, and she’s been frequenting the mingle clubs. But she’s been _removing_ her ring to go, meaning she’s there for more than friendship certainly. Conclusion: lovers.”

“That’s…” Lestrade began, unable to find the right words to complete the sentence. There were social clubs set up for those who’d lost their mates in death, but at those it was required to wear your bond ring. If she was removing her ring, then she was going to clubs for those who had not yet bonded. It turned John’s stomach to think there were people who would take advantage of others in that way, just for sex. There were better, less devious ways to go about that. Sherlock didn’t seem phased by the information. Of course, he hadn’t been phased by Jennifer’s stillborn daughter, either.

“Since none of the other victims had connections to mingle clubs, I thought it irrelevant. But if she was clever enough to run lovers out of a mingle club…”

He began pacing, talking out the details as they came to him. Mrs. Hudson came in sometime during this, talking about a taxi Sherlock had ordered. Sherlock tracked Jennifer’s phone with the GPS tracking website, which was rather ingenious, but it tracked it to the flat, and that made no sense. And then all of a sudden, he stopped. Sherlock Holmes stood still, staring at his phone.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John asked.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”

“So, how can the phone be here?” John prompted, fear threading through his voice. He had only taken Sherlock’s word that he hadn’t killed anyone, still believed him in truth, but this was truly damning.

“Dunno.”

“I’ll try it again.” Shit, if Sherlock didn’t know, then what the hell were the rest of them supposed to do?

“Good idea.”

Sherlock walked towards the door, obviously preoccupied with something.

“Where are you going?” John asked, half-rising from his seat in front of the laptop. Sherlock was preoccupied, and then leaving the flat. It didn’t sit well. Something was off.

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

And with that, the detective was gone. John sat heavily in his chair again, hoping the police would follow the consulting detective out of the flat. John was tired, not only physically but mentally from trying so hard to read Sherlock. It shouldn’t be so hard when you meet your Name match, should it? Wasn’t there this ‘ping’ in your brain when you found them? A switch that flipped, so that there wasn’t all this uncertainty? John knew he would have to tell Sherlock, and the sooner it was over the sooner they could begin moving along the path to becoming bonded soulmates. If that meant anything to the detective. If his reaction to Jennifer’s behavior was anything to go by, the entire bonding process meant very little to him. Maybe that was for the best? But if that were true, then what the hell was that scene in the hallway all about? Or maybe John was just reading too much into it. After all, Sherlock had some fairly unusual mannerisms, perhaps he was just deducing John and it felt more awkward than it was because he was expecting something else. _Slowly_ , John thought. _Softly, softly_.


	6. Chapter 6

Lestrade had called off the drugs bust after Sherlock left. John had tried actually calling the phone, but there had been no sign of it in the flat. Was that good? Or did that mean Sherlock had it with him? John couldn’t make heads or tails out of what was going on anymore. And what about the taxi Sherlock left in? Hadn’t he said he didn’t order a taxi? John searched the phone’s location again, the ‘working’ indicator on the laptop spinning infuriatingly.

“Why’d he do that?” Lestrade asked, breaking into John’s thoughts. “Why’d he have to leave?”

John considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “You know him better than I do.”

“Known him for five years, and no, I don’t.”

John frowned at the way the DI had said this, implying that John already knew Sherlock better than he. Or was that just an over-stressed reaction to anything anyone said about the detective? John wiped a hand down his face.

“Why do you put up with him?” John asked.

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why.” Lestrade replied picking up his coat and walking toward the door. “And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very very lucky, he might even be a good one.” And with that, the DI disappeared down the stairs.

John wandered around the sitting room for a moment, contemplating Lestrade’s words. The skull on the mantelpiece, the papers strewn about on every conceivable flat surface. Of course the mess was worse after the ‘drugs bust’ had upended dozens of looseleaf files that had been full to overflowing on the shelves. The jar of eyeballs was still sitting on the kitchen table. Everywhere John looked he saw chaos. It was the chaos of a man whose mind was too big, too powerful. John knew there was little hope of him ever truly understanding Sherlock Holmes, there was too much there. And although John was not stupid, he’d completed medical school with top marks for God’s sake, he knew his mind was no match for the detective’s. No-one’s was.

It was a cosmic joke. Some quirk of fate or circumstance that had given John Watson the Name of Sherlock. What would a man like that need with a man like him? All of his personal reservations aside, it was a colossal mis-match. Well, it was obvious that Sherlock did not need John around. He was functioning just fine on his own, maybe there was another sucker somewhere that would be able to stand living with this guy, but it was not going to be…

The laptop pinged and John turned to look at the screen. There was a map, and it was zooming in on a small blue dot…that was moving away from Baker Street. The phone was moving. The phone was obviously not in the flat. Did the murderer still have the phone? The phone was at Baker Street when Sherlock was here, but not at Baker Street before, when they’d texted it. It hadn’t been in the flat because it had never rung or vibrated or anything that anyone could hear. It left when Sherlock…

John’s eyes snapped open. The taxi. It had to be. He didn’t give himself time to second-guess. He grabbed the laptop and raced down the stairs. What the hell was Sherlock doing with the murderer? Why didn’t he say anything? What could someone say to Sherlock Holmes that would force him to commit suicide? John’s heart leapt into his throat at that last thought. Maybe it was a big cosmic joke, but John would be damned if he’d let something happen to the man who bore his Name. Not if he could do something about it. Repercussions and reservations be damned.

“ _You’re very loyal_ very _quickly_.” The words rang in his head. Had that been only an hour ago? Two hours? The man had been right, in any case, though John had refused to give him the satisfaction. It had to be the chemical bonding. That was the only sensible explanation.

John flagged down a taxi with much more success this time than he’d had on Brixton High Road, although he suspected the mystery man to be behind the distinct lack of taxis there, too. Regardless, John was now on his way, following a little blue dot on a map. After the first few turnings, John pulled out his phone and dialled emergency.

“State the nature of your emergency, please,” came a perfectly calm voice.

“Detecive Inspector Lestrade, please.”

“This isn’t the switchboard. Do you have an emergency?”

“Yes!” John’s agitation made his temper flare. “I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade!”

“One moment,” came the voice, and then he heard the line buzz as it was re-routed. John drummed his fingers against the inscription on his phone, following the little blue dot and giving the cabbie instructions as it moved. It had stopped somewhere marked “Roland-Kerr College.”

“Switchboard, how may I direct your call?”

John swore.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Doctor John Watson. Look, I need to speak with him, it’s an emergency!”

There were several more iterations of this exact conversation and each time he was transferred, his oaths became more elaborate and obscene. When he finally got to the DI, he was frantic.

“Sherlock is at Roland-Kerr College with the murderer.”

“How do you know?” Lestrade sounded skeptical. John couldn’t blame him.

“The phone moved and Sherlock was in a taxi. Look, just get there, alright?” John had no time for useless explanations, things just needed doing, and if Lestrade couldn’t get them done, then by God there was a pistol stuck in the back of John’s waistband. John would see it done.

“Right, okay,” John couldn’t tell if this was placating or actually impetus to get the Yard in gear for this.

“Good. Thanks. Roland-Kerr, you got that?”

“Yeah. Got it.”

John hung up, distinctly dissatisfied, but hoping that Lestrade was currently frantically gesturing in his office and making phone calls. As John slipped his phone back into his pocket, the cab pulled up to spot where the blue dot had come to rest. There were two identical buildings side-by-side, with a taxi parked equidistant between them. John sighed, staring at them for a moment before walking towards the one on the left. He hoped he was not too late.

John ran through the halls of the darkened building, trying every doorknob he saw, peering through windows in case the murderer had locked them inside. Where was he? Why hadn’t he said anything? John pulled his pistol from the waistband of his trousers and cocked it, making sure there was a bullet in the chamber. He just hoped he wasn’t too late. He burst into a classroom. The desks made long rows across, with benches on either side. John scanned the room frantically, so quickly that he almost missed it. He would have missed it if they’d kept the lights off. In the brightly lit room directly across from John, Sherlock was holding something in his fingers, studying it in the light. Time seemed to slow. It took hours for Sherlock to lower the pill from the light and hold it in front of him. Decades for John to vault over the tables to stand by the window. Longer yet for him to bring his pistol up and aim, watching helplessly as Sherlock brought the pill millimeters closer to his perfect bow lips.

“SHERLOCK!”

John’s own voice sounded miles away as he aimed, squeezed the trigger, heard the glass shatter, saw the man crumple. John released the breath he’d been holding, shoved his pistol into his waistband again, adjusted his jacket, and fled. He wasn’t sure, later, why he’d run quite so far. By the time he’d walked back to the college, Lestrade had appeared with an ambulance and six squad cars. This time, John did not ask to be let inside the crime scene tape. This time he watched as Sherlock was brought out and sat at the end of the ambulance, shrugging out of the bright orange blanket only to have another EMT put it back on. He was safe, then. Alive. John had been in time. John stared up at the sky for a moment, rocking back on his heels. He tried not to be pleased with himself. He tried to remember that the murderer was a person, too, and that he’d killed him simply for threatening Sherlock. But the fact of the matter was, he was a murderer that would kill no more, and John was satisfied with that. He’d killed for less concrete reasons when he’d been asked to in Afghanistan. Those were his ‘bad’ days. He’d much rather help than hurt. He returned his gaze to Sherlock just as the detective turned to look at him. He’d been talking to Lestrade about something, but stopped abruptly when their eyes met. John smiled. A friendly smile.

Sherlock rose from his seat at the back of the ambulance and began walking over, a strange light glowing in his eyes. He ducked under the crime scene tape and invaded John’s personal space again. He leaned over and whispered into John’s ear.

“Good shot.”

John looked up at him, pleased and trying valiantly to appear nonchalant about the whole thing.

“Must have been, through the window. Yes.”

“Well, you’d know.” Sherlock grinned. “Need to get the powder marks off your fingers. I don’t think you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case.”

John blinked several times, the possibility hadn’t occurred to him, in truth. He’d been on the battlefield, protecting a fellow soldier, hadn’t he?

A thought came to him as the pair strolled past police cars, away from the hustle and bustle at the scene.

“You were gonna take that damn pill, weren’t you?”

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

John knew this for the blatant lie that it was. There was no way Sherlock could have predicted what happened.

“No you didn’t. It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it, risking your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John said. “And you’ll bloody well tell me next time.” John’s heart rate increased exponentially as the words came out of his mouth. Why? What was he thinking? He wasn’t, that was all there was to it. He was not thinking, the stress of the past few hours had made him mad, that’s what it was.

Sherlock glanced at John curiously, gauging the doctor’s expression, then smiled.

“Dinner?”

Food sounded excellent to John, who’d been interrupted in the middle of the last one by a murderous cabbie. That murderous cabbie he’d just shot. Through a window. To save Sherlock Holmes, who was his Name match. And John was beginning to realize that it wasn’t a joke, that it wasn’t a mistake, for him to be here.

“Starving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: The Chinese Restaurant.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some random deductions for John in lieu of real conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for all your lovely kudos, comments, and bookmarks! It's a bit intimidating to have an audience, I have to admit. I hope this is up to your expectations. :)

John sat across from Sherlock at the Chinese place, waiting for the dim sum to arrive. He knew there’d be sticky buns, one of his favorites, but he’d perhaps unwisely let Sherlock decide on the rest. He rather hoped chicken feet would not be featuring. He drummed his fingers on the table, a nervous habit that his mother found abhorrent but hadn’t been able to beat out of him. He stole glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye every few moments, never lingering long enough to catch his eye. The detective twiddled with the bottles on the table, rearranging them at least six times before taking a chopstick and twirling it between his preternaturally long fingers.

“So, your _brother_ ,” John said. It was a bit irritating that Sherlock hadn’t said anything, never once thought to enlighten John as to the identity of his arch-enemy. John wasn’t a big fan of his sister currently, but she certainly wasn’t his ‘arch-enemy.’

“Hmm, Mycroft. Yes.” Sherlock said. His tone said that there were about a billion things he’d rather discuss.

“Why didn’t you tell me straight away that’s who it was? You obviously knew.”

“Why does anyone keep secrets, John?” Sherlock replied, his eyes unusually intense for the offhand tone in which the question was delivered. John stopped short, a witty retort dying on his lips. Did Sherlock know? Had he deduced? If he had, why didn’t he say anything? _Please don’t say anything._

“Not sure someone could keep a secret from you,” John said finally.

“But you’re trying anyway.”

John’s eyes went wide and he tried to swallow the sand that suddenly filled his mouth.

 

*****

 

Sherlock knew that he was twiddling, but seemed to be unable to stop himself. After arranging the various sauce bottles on the table according to size, alphabetically, amount of liquid, maximum capacity, and flavor, he settled on size as it was the most aesthetically pleasing. His hands felt empty, and he picked up a chopstick, rolling it between his fingers. It was a side-effect of pondering things he normally did not think about. John had killed a man to keep him alive, less than forty-eight hours after he’d met him, less than twenty-four actually in contact. Mycroft wasn’t that attached.

“So, your _brother_ ,” John said, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts at an incredibly apropos moment.

“Hmm, Mycroft. Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me straight away that’s who it was? You obviously knew.”

“Why does anyone keep secrets, John?” Oh, secrets. There were so many swimming between them. John didn’t even know the half of it. But there was a very large one that seemed to shadow everything else at the moment, and perhaps if that was dealt with, everything else would follow. But how to go about it? Sherlock needed data. He’d avoided collecting data on this point because he never really believed he’d need it. Pointless to acquire facts that were just going to be deleted anyway.

“Not sure someone could keep a secret from you,” John replied. There was something odd about his phrasing. Sherlock looked at him sharply for a moment. Tension in the corners of his eyes, not holding eye contact for more than a moment at a time, staring at the table. John made it incredibly easy.

“But you’re trying anyway.”

Sherlock watched the stress response flare in the man seated across the table. Pulse elevated, eyes wide, involuntary muscle contractions in the neck and shoulders. The man was terrified that Sherlock would uncover his secret, why? What was it about a Name match, a bond, that would strike terror into a person? While the detective himself didn’t spend his every waking moment contemplating his Name, the idea of someone who would enjoy his company was appealing. And the idea of someone who could assist him in the Work, even if only by carrying an illegal handgun, was even more appealing. But John had figured out what was going on, hadn’t he? Perhaps he wasn’t as idiotic as he’d assumed. Unobservant, mired in cliche and expectations, yes, but not completely stupid.

The food arrived, carried by a middle-aged Chinese woman with the beginnings of arthritis in her hands wearing an abhorrent red blouse with a miniature white flower pattern. She placed the three steaming pots on the table, looked at the pair of them critically, then bowed perfunctorily and left, resuming her seat in the booth in the far left corner of the restaurant. Sherlock knew she’d been watching them, memorizing them, and that she was not a regular waitress here. It pricked at the back of his mind, but perhaps she was just filling in for a family member, and was curious about the two Englishmen sharing a meal in the middle of the night.

Sherlock watched as John’s discomfort drained away as they opened the pots. Vegetable dumplings, bamboo rolls in oyster sauce, and pork sticky buns for John. Sherlock would let John have all the sticky buns. Decidedly not his taste. He didn’t have anything against meat, personally, but eating it made him feel sluggish and he avoided it when he could. Sherlock’s lips twitched in amusement as he noticed John’s reaction to the bamboo rolls. Seemed they’d only be sharing the vegetable dumplings, then. Fine.

Sherlock wondered for a moment if he should go back to their previous topic of conversation, but decided against it. If John was that upset at just the implication that Sherlock knew anything, pressing the issue now would be foolish. People usually had conversations over dinner, it was expected. But there was little Sherlock was conversant in other than crime or chemistry, neither of which John was likely to know much about, which would turn it into a lecture. He’d always seemed appreciative of Sherlock’s deductive powers, perhaps he could deduce the woman in the ugly blouse. He scanned her surreptitiously,and smirked.

“Did you see our waitress?” Sherlock asked.

“Mmm,” John replied, his mouth full of sticky bun.

“She lives alone with three cats. Based on the stains on her fingers, she had a severe smoking habit but is trying to quit, possibly because her granddaughter has asked her to. That’s why she’s here tonight, her granddaughter is the usual waitress. The shape of the nose is identical, as well as the manner in which they walk,” Sherlock paused. There was the spark of admiration in John’s eyes, and Sherlock felt a warm oozy something spread through his chest. Odd. “No doubt even you noticed her arthritis, but it’s worse than it looks. She carried the tray to the table with both hands, and she’s waited tables here and in China for decades. Clearly she’s losing strength in her hands because of it. She is more than she appears…” Sherlock paused, confused. The surface details came so easily, but past that she descended into murky uncertainty. Very strange.

“That is absolutely marvelous,” John said into the silence, mistaking Sherlock’s confusion for his being finished. The admiration blatant on the doctor’s face made that warm oozy feeling intensify, and Sherlock was certain it had reached his face. John either didn’t notice or didn’t comment. It seemed painfully obvious to the detective. It wasn’t necessarily embarrassing, just different, new, something to be tucked away and analyzed, much like his instinctive desire to touch John in the hallway earlier that evening.

Sherlock talked through his deduction of the old woman, elucidating his deductions in her collar, the few strands of fur he’d noticed on her pant leg as she’d set the bamboo rolls on the table, the slight curve of her nose that she shared with her granddaughter. John asked questions, was interested, admiring. Sherlock was more than happy to preen and strut in front of such a rapt audience.

The two of them shut down the restaurant at two in the morning, still chatting away, discussing nothing more important than the shine on a man’s shoes indicating his level in society.

“No, no. It’s true. Politicians use this all the time, it’s a subconscious indication of class. The more scuffed the shoe, the more ‘common man’ he appears.”

“You’re quite posh, then,” John said, pointing at Sherlock’s own shoes, which nearly glowed in the streetlights.

“Hardly. I’ve been looking for a flatmate, remember? I’m merely conscientious,” Sherlock replied. Oh, secrets. The detective was suddenly repulsed by the ruse, but it was there now.

The pair arrived at Baker Street and walked up to the flat before John realized what was happening.

“Oh, shit. All my things are still at the bedsit,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed that he’d forgotten already that he didn’t live here.

“The upstairs bedroom comes furnished. You can use a throw and cushion from the couch here. Not ideal, but it is nearly two-thirty.”

John nodded his thanks, blushing a bit as he pulled the throw off the couch and tucked a cushion under his arm.

“Well, goodnight then.” John said, the awkwardness of unfamiliar routines apparent in his voice.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said. The detective smiled, and then turned and retreated to his own bedroom to unpack those occurrences he’d squirreled away. It would take time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John can't sleep.

The upstairs bedroom was quite nice. Small window on the far wall covered by a curtain, wardrobe along the left hand wall behind the door, which was a bit awkward, bed centered against the right hand wall. There were no sheets on the mattress, but it looked clean. The floor was bare wood, but a small carpet could fix that easily enough. John nodded, and released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He slipped out of his shoes, and padded over to the bed, throwing the small blanket and cushion down on the left-hand side. It wasn’t ideal, but John was too tired to care.

He pulled off his jumper, folding it and setting it on the floor by the end of the bed. He repeated the process with the button down underneath, setting it on top of the jumper. It was a familiar ritual, calming. His pistol he shoved between the mattress and spring. His trousers were added to the pile, and then he wrapped himself up in the throw and lay down on the bed.

He expected to fall asleep immediately. He’d been through more today than he had since getting shot, but sleep would not come.

John tried to chalk it up to being in a strange bed in a strange flat, but he’d fallen asleep easily wherever he’d needed to in the Army, so it wasn’t that. He flipped onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t really have plans for tomorrow aside from packing up what little he had in the bedsit and bringing it over to Baker Street. It would only take a few hours, at most. It was depressing; his entire life could be boxed up and moved in less than a day.

He began itemizing everything he’d need to pack. The list was laughably short and the exercise did nothing to help him relax. What was it that was keeping him awake? He could sleep anywhere, any time. Well, maybe doze was a better word for it, he had never been a heavy sleeper and military service had only served to amplify that trait. But right now, his eyes wouldn’t even stay closed.

He allowed his eyes to open again, and rolled over to stare at the ceiling. It wasn’t a very interesting ceiling, there were no cracks, no patterns. The shadows weren’t even interesting. Once he’d figured out that the long skinny one that bisected the bright rectangle coming through the window was the chimney of a nearby building, it had ceased to occupy his mind.

He sighed again, shaking his head. He knew why he was awake, and it had everything to do with a certain consulting detective asleep downstairs. It was ludicrous, ridiculous. There was absolutely no reason for John to be afraid, but that’s exactly what it was. John could kill a man, he could be shot and face death, he could sew up a ragged shrapnel wound without so much as a second thought but he was terrified of bonding with Sherlock Holmes. It made no rational sense, so John tried to push it away. Surely it would all work itself out in time.

“ _You have to tell him._ ” Mike’s words from the day before surfaced in his brain. John wasn’t so sure about that anymore. It seemed that the detective already knew, or at least speculated, that Sherlock was John’s Name. Did it need to be said aloud, really? Hadn’t John proven it a few hours ago by killing that cabbie?

He knew how the exchange was supposed to work. It was a variation on a theme in every movie he’d ever seen: two strangers meet, and when they learn the other’s name, they either dance for joy or are shocked at their good fortune or immediately kiss their Name match. How many movies had he sat through where the entire plot revolved around two people nearly meeting, whether it be comical almosts or heartwrenching might have beens. And here he was, confronted with his Name match and he was too scared, _scared_ , to say anything.

John could tell himself it was reluctance on his part due to his upbringing but that wasn’t the truth of it. The truth of it was that after twenty years of crushed hope, twenty years of being alone and defending himself and coping by himself the idea that there would be someone else to share every detail of his life, someone upon whom he would rely and who would rely upon him, someone who would know his heart in all its darkest depths, was so foreign that he was simply not prepared for the reality of it.

John liked having friends, he wasn’t a loner nor did he make bad company. But bonding was a very different experience to having friends. And to have his Name match be someone who others, in no uncertain terms, viewed as a ‘freak,’ well. What did that say about John?

John groaned aloud, flipped over hard onto his stomach and pulled the throw over his head. Thinking was not helping him sleep. He threw off the blanket and rolled out of bed, dropping immediately to the floor. He set his hands and began, slowly at first then building speed, doing push-ups. Another habit he’d never really given up and one that had served him well after his shoulder had been blown to smithereens. It was why the tremor in his hand was only intermittent, although John had to wonder if that was all in his head, too, after the demonstration Sherlock’s brother had given him earlier. No tremors when he was under stress. It was odd.

John wasn’t sure how many push-ups he did, but when his shoulder began to ache in earnest and the sweat had begun to drip into his eyes, he stood up and shook his arms. The physical exertion had cleared his head somewhat, and as he lay back down on the bed. Sleep finally arrived and the doctor let it pull him under.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for everyone who bookmarked, gave kudos, and commented. I'm so glad people are enjoying this, because I'm enjoying writing it!

Sherlock had wished John Watson a good night and retired to his own bedroom. With his laptop and phone. Tonight was about research and analyzation, but where to begin? The soulmate bond was something he knew about, but didn’t understand. It had perhaps been a purposeful ignorance on his part, not wishing to understand something he thought he’d never experience, but it left him with very little information.

He set the computer down on the bed, the phone on top, and pulled his suit jacket off, hanging it up in the wardrobe. He pulled his blue dressing gown off the hook by the door and shoved his arms into it, letting it drape behind him. It was the indoor version of his Belstaff, and since he was about to do some detective work it seemed appropriate.

He took the pillows from his bed and shoved them all against the headboard, making a sort of wedge pillow out of them, then picked up his computer and phone, sat down on the bed and leaned against the pillow pile. Quite comfortable, although not quite as nice as his chair. He’d decided he would conduct this research in his room because it would be mortifying for John to come in and find him reading such sentimental tripe. Sherlock himself couldn’t really believe he was doing this, but he required information and that meant subjecting himself to certain uncomfortable, and frankly embarrassing, feelings.

First, he needed information on exactly what the bond entailed, what biological functions it intertwined with and how it would affect his mind. That was his only reservation about the whole process, really, how it would affect his ability to think. In spite of himself, and everything Mycroft had ever said about sentiment, Sherlock was relieved to have found someone who seemed to truly be his mate. Probably. Very probably. Sherlock was eighty-seven percent certain that this John, number fifty-seven, was the John. Not many people would kill a man for you, regardless of how long they’d known you.

Right, soulmates and cognitive ability. There had to be research on this topic. Sherlock logged into his account on a scientific journal site and began searching through psychological studies involving bonded mates. There were thousands of them, mostly focusing on the ability of the bonded pair to know things about the other instinctively, powerful emotional responses mostly; fear, pain, intense sadness, joy. There were only two studies about cognitive ability in bonded pairs, which had concluded that the data showed a significant number of pairs had nearly identical intelligence scores. Sherlock read this study very carefully, wondering if he’d seriously misjudged John’s mind. There was no data on the intelligence scores of those from before bonding, however. So the similar intelligence levels might have something to do with the bonding process.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the edge of his laptop. If that were the case, then would Sherlock lose some of his mental acuity, or would John gain? There was absolutely no data on this. It was frustrating in the extreme. Unless… Sherlock cross-referenced the emotion-cue tests with the two intelligence tests. There was a nugget of interest, there. If emotion crossed the bond between mates, then why not other mental experiences? After all, the pairs had been separated, so chemical cues were eliminated. Suddenly, Sherlock was very, very interested in what would happen when he bonded with John. It was a great experiment, for one of his admittedly impressive intellect to bond with someone so, well, normal. He would have to take meticulous notes if it were to be of any value, but he didn’t see where that would be a problem.

With the idea of an experiment bubbling in the back of his mind, he went about searching out how to begin the bonding process. This topic was not in staid scientific journals, this was a lot messier and a lot more… sentimental.

He found a blog entitled ‘How to Meet your Mate,’ which basically told the reader to tell as many people as possible what your Name was and keep telling people until you were drawn together by ‘fate.’ If that wasn’t working, the reader could join a mingle club or any number of social organizations, which increased the amount of people you met and, theoretically, the amount of people that knew your Name, leading to an increased probability of finding them. Since Sherlock was treating this process as complete, the blog was largely irrelevant although Sherlock found that he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop reading until he reached the end. There was a link at the bottom to a page titled, “You’ve found them, now what?” which seemed much more promising.

It was, except it assumed that the first thing that happened after two soulmates met was that they exchanged Names. It said nothing about how to go about beginning the conversation in which the names were actually exchanged. There was a small section on two soulmates both having very common names, how to tell in three days if they’re your Name match or not. This was interesting. Sherlock could use these cues to deduce if this John was, indeed, his Name match. The other Johns in his life had all been dismissed fairly quickly, either by revealing their Name within Sherlock’s hearing or by being bound before Sherlock met them. Fifty-six of them. Sherlock had never needed to take an active interest before.

_How to tell if they’re your match in three days (or less!)_

_First, you have to make sure you spend a lot of time with your Name match. At least two hours every day if you can. Meet for lunch or dinner so you can talk the first day. Conversation should come fairly easily as there should be some common points of interest between the two of you. Don’t worry if it’s awkward in the beginning! Even though you might be soulmates, you still need to get to know each other. It’s natural to be a little nervous._

The entry went on like this, point after point, but one thing struck Sherlock.

_You’ll want to be close to them by this time. Touch them, hold their hand. This is a good sign! It means that you’ve begun to bond and that they are your true Name match. Congratulations!_

Sherlock sighed. So that’s what was going on in the hallway earlier. He’d never had the impulse to touch someone come over him so strongly before. He refused touch with most other people, Mrs. Hudson a notable exception, but there were always exceptions, weren’t there?

There was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind, now. He had found his mate and the bonding process had already begun, impossibly quickly if this article was anything to go by. While not a scientific study of the bonding process, it was anecdotally interesting and wasn’t so saccharine in tone that it rotted his teeth. Sherlock scrolled down the page a bit, curious.

_Don’t rush the bonding process. Sometimes it takes weeks, sometimes months, but the worst thing you can do is rush through. You’ll both know when it’s time to cement the bond, and it will happen naturally. Rushing things creates a weaker bond that’s more likely to be severed under stress._

Sherlock chuckled at the studious avoidance of the word ‘sex,’ as if the mere mention of it would be an affront to those who sought this information. Sherlock had an inkling that there would be no ‘rushing’ involved in his and John Watson’s bonding. John’s fear when Sherlock had fished for information at the Chinese place was proof enough of that. But the question remained: why?

Why was John so afraid, and what exactly was he afraid of? This answer would not be in an article on a blog, it was solely inside John. And for once, Sherlock had no idea how to acquire that information.

He shut his laptop with a snap and dropped it on the floor. He set his phone on the nightstand and plugged it in. He had no case. It was now approximately four in the morning. He supposed he could start the eyeball experiment over again. There were some in the refrigerator that he hadn’t used yet. Damn Donovan anyway for taking them out of the microwave. With a huff of annoyance, he pushed himself out of bed and padded out to the kitchen. It was imperative he know the effects of heat on intraocular fluid. Plus, it was kind of fun to watch them pop if he left them in a bit too long.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a while...

John woke with a start. His heart pounding, sweat prickling at his temples. ‘What the hell,’ he thought. There was no nightmare, or at least none that he could recall. He was fine. He saw the grey light of pre-dawn through the top of the window and groaned. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple hours. He rolled onto his stomach, pulling the blanket up to his chin and buried his face in the pillow. He didn’t have anywhere he had to be, so this was the best place to…

_BANG_

John was up like a shot, pulling on his trousers and shirt and scrambling down the stairs. His muzzy head making the narrow treads difficult to maneuver. He skidded into the sitting room, scanning the situation. Everything appeared normal, although he would be a poor judge in all the chaos of the past day. When he got to the kitchen, everything fell into place.

Sherlock heard John thundering down the stairs. As the doctor flew into the sitting room, Sherlock found himself staring. In his haste, John had neglected to button his shirt. Sherlock blinked once, very purposefully, and returned his attention to the microwave.

John’s breathing was heavy but recovering and he stood there staring at Sherlock for perhaps a bit longer than was really necessary. The detective was still fully dressed in his clothing from the previous day, overlayed with a blue dressing gown. John tried to figure out why that would seem so intimate and personal, but gave up.

“What was that?” John asked.

“Eyeballs,” Sherlock replied, taking a small dish out of the microwave and setting it on the counter next to the microscope.

“Eyeballs?” John asked, frowning.

“Obviously.” Sherlock scraped at the pinkish goo in the dish with a scalpel. John had a strong stomach, but realizing that what was in the dish had just recently been in the microwave made the bile rise in the back of his throat.

“What went ‘bang’ then?” John asked.

“The eyeballs. They popped.”

John’s brows rose. “W-wh-what?”

Sherlock sighed, throwing a put-upon look at the ceiling.

“Alright, wrong question,” John conceded. “Let’s try why.”

“Experiment,” Sherlock shrugged. It explained everything and absolutely nothing all at the same time.

“Do your experiments always go bang?” John tried, hoping that he would not be thrown out of bed at stupid o’clock in the morning on a regular basis. He wasn’t in the Army anymore.

“Mmm… not always,” Sherlock replied, smearing the pink goo he’d scraped up into a test tube.

“Right,” John said, “have you done anything to the kettle?”

“What?” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at John, “of course not!”

John ignored the detective’s attempt to be affronted. It was too early in the morning for an argument. But something would have to be done about exploding body parts in the microwave.

 

*****

 

John finished hauling the last box up to his bedroom that afternoon. Sherlock sat in his chair and pretended to read a book the entire time. He was actually watching the doctor intently as he passed the sitting room door. Every other trip, John would grumble at Sherlock, sarcastically thanking him for his help. How was Sherlock supposed to observe his soulmate if he was carrying dozens of boxes upstairs? John obviously didn’t think. Or not always, at any rate.

Sherlock was not sure why John had been so upset about the microwave. It was perfectly serviceable, and only a few bits of eyeball had even splattered. The doctor had disinfected the thing, though, and told Sherlock, in no uncertain terms, that the device was no longer to be used for experimentation. Sherlock had muttered something that sounded vaguely assenting, but he needed that microwave for certain experiments that were currently coagulating in the refrigerator.

John came clomping down the stairs after depositing the box in his new bedroom and all but collapsed into the armchair opposite Sherlock.

“Right, that’s done,” he said. “No thanks to you.” He lifted his head up incrementally to eye the detective.

“You did brilliantly, John.” Sherlock replied. “You obviously didn’t require my assistance.”

John rolled his head back against the chair. This man, John thought, this man, he’s supposed to be my soulmate? Somebody has one hell of a twisted sense of humor.

“Required it? No. Would have appreciated it, though. Helping. It’s what people do, usually, when they’re sharing a flat.”

“People do all kinds of things, John. Most of them are either illogical or counterproductive. You were perfectly capable of carrying those things to your room, and I was enjoying my book.” Sherlock smiled, a false one.

“Bullshit. You’re just being a lazy sod,” John said, hauling himself out of his chair and padding into the kitchen. “Tea?”

Sherlock had the decency to look scandalized.

John finished making tea and handed the mug to Sherlock, whose fingers brushed his wrist and lingered there for a few extra milliseconds. John felt electricity jump up his arm at the touch, but Sherlock didn’t seem to even notice it had happened.

John took his tea to the desk and powered on his laptop. He had something to write about now, didn’t he? He wrote a short bit about the previous night, but wasn’t sure what all he could say about it, actually. That might be a good question for Lestrade. Still, it felt nice to write about something exciting for a change. He’d written a bit about Sherlock before, studiously avoiding actually naming him. Calling him ‘the madman.’ John wondered how long he could keep that up before anybody got suspicious. Aside from Mike. But Mike was a good man.

Suddenly John wasn’t so sure he should be writing anything about his flatmate on his blog. One slip and Harry would come careening into London to meet the infamous Sherlock. And John would do just about anything to avoid that scene. For more than one reason. He was trying to decide on what he should do, really, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A hand with very long slender fingers that curled over his collarbone as the detective attached to them leaned forward to pluck a book from the piles against the wall. John was hyper-aware of the contact, but Sherlock didn’t seem to think it odd or uncomfortable. It was something that John would just have to get used to, probably, like so many other things. It took time to adjust to living with another person even if they weren’t an eccentric genius. Or your Name match. John tensed at the thought as Sherlock returned to his chair with his new book, flipping through it hard enough to tear pages.

No, he couldn’t really write anything else about Sherlock until he’d decided. John shut his laptop with a click and stretched, rolling the shoulder Sherlock had touched trying to forget the feeling of it. He failed miserably, however, and sank into the couch with the detective’s handprint feeling as though it had branded him. He flipped on the telly and tried to focus it, failing more often than not, his eyes wandering to Sherlock who was apparently engrossed in this book as well.

 

*****

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what was going wrong. He’d intentionally touched John twice today and the doctor had hardly noticed. While he had detected elevated heart rate both times, and John had visibly stiffened when Sherlock had leaned on his shoulder, it wasn’t conclusive. It could just be surprise, unfamiliarity, any number of things. When John sprawled out on the couch to watch telly, Sherlock wondered if he dared up the intensity of his experiments. John sat at one end of the couch, his legs thrust forward but crossed at the ankles. Sherlock had no idea what kind of show John had turned on, but it didn’t sound like football.

He’d sat down on the end of the couch directly across from the telly, that was advantageous, because the lamp was on the other end of the couch and Sherlock could, theoretically, move for ‘better lighting.’ Yes, that would be fine. He shut his book, his index finger holding his place, as though he’d actually read a single word, and sat at the opposite end of the couch, flipping the lamp on. John glanced over for a moment, but shrugged and re-focused on the telly. Sherlock sat with his right ankle perched on his left knee. Body language was important, but Sherlock wasn’t certain how well John read it. It was why Sherlock took such great pains to sit or stand in awkward or unlikely positions. It kept people off-balance, and people who were off-balance were usually easier to read.

“What’s your book?” John asked perhaps fifteen minutes after Sherlock sat on the couch.

Sherlock guiltily flipped to the front cover, having neglected to memorize which volume he’d actually plucked from the desk. _Oh no._

“Study on what not to do when investigating,” Sherlock said. It was, in fact, some kind of true crime novel Lestrade had brought him when he’d first begun to work with the Detective Inspector. He’d meant to take it to a charity shop, but it had wound up on his shelves and had made the move to Baker Street with him.

John scootched a bit closer on the couch, bending sideways to check the cover himself.

“Fever in the Heart,” John quirked an eyebrow at the detective. “Good, then?”

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied, gratefully snapping the book shut and tossing it onto the small shelf beside him.

“Then why read it?”

_Yes, why indeed?_ “Bored,” Sherlock said. “The same reason you’re watching a television show that you’ve absolutely no interest in.”

“Point.”

John leaned back, crossing his legs again, this time also crossing his arms over his stomach as he resumed staring idly at the screen. Closing himself off, unavailable. Perhaps this was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock knew John felt the touches, was acutely aware of them in fact. He knew because every time their skin touched the doctor’s heart rate would rise and his nostrils would flare ever so slightly. Sherlock would always feel dissatisfied, afterwards, as though something else were supposed to happen. John knew Sherlock was doing this on purpose. Nobody accidentally rests their hand on your neck while reading over your shoulder. He tried to ignore the fire the detective’s cool hands lit low in his gut. It was increasingly difficult to pretend indifference, and sometimes he thought he didn’t want to anymore, but then Sherlock would go do something completely mental and the doctor would renew his resolve to wait because there was no way the universe was that cruel.

It went on like this for nearly a month. February was giving way to March, wet and chill, and the trees were just beginning to turn that lovely shade of foam green as the buds emerge. John was miserable. He’d taken one look at the shopping list Sherlock had left for him that morning and thrown it out. Only Sherlock would think to put a blowtorch on the grocery list. Maybe it was supposed to be a joke, something to make John laugh, but John was not in a laughing mood. Hadn’t been for more than two weeks. It was a lot more difficult than he’d given himself credit for, living with his soulmate and not being up front about it. It took a lot more concentration than he’d thought it would. John wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t Sherlock stealing into his thoughts every few moments, invading his dreams. The more John tried to fight against it, the harder it was to ignore. Sort of like pink elephants, he thought, once somebody tells you not to think of them, it’s all you can picture.

Sherlock, for his part, was faring little better. His experiment with John was going nowhere and he was beginning to wonder if he’d just invented the whole thing in some kind of case-fueled frenzy and that this John was not, in fact, his soulmate. The lingering gazes in the hall seemed so far away now. He felt the awful burning _boring_ eating away at the edges of his brain and wished desperately for Lestrade to text with something interesting.

Sherlock heard the door to the flat slam shut and John’s tread on the stair. He must be done with the shopping then. He wondered if John had appreciated his joke about the blowtorch? Sometimes it was difficult to tell what would set him laughing and what would upset him.

“Nope, I got it, thanks,” John said as he hauled plastic shopping bags in through the door and found a chair in the kitchen to set them down on. Sherlock currently had the table full of test tubes and flasks filled with tissue in varying states of decomposition. It would only be a few more days until that experiment was complete, but John had not been happy about the smell initially. The pine scented air fresheners that hung over the table were his revenge, because they made Sherlock sneeze when he got too close. He’d had to wear a surgical mask so he wouldn’t contaminate the samples.

“Milk?” Sherlock asked as he ambled over.

“Yes.”

Sherlock hummed curiously as he poked through the bags; bread, jam, milk, apples, tea. Sherlock plucked one of the apples up and took a bite. He never could resist an apple. He also picked up the milk and put it in the refrigerator. The apples went in the fruit bowl. The rest of it was John’s. Sherlock turned back to the sitting room, brushing his hand against John’s back as he did. He took a bite of apple, crunching it loudly so that John would be aware of his eating, and perched in his chair. His eyes followed John through the kitchen.

John had become used to Sherlock’s intense watching. It was, admittedly, a bit weird at first. But the more John thought about it, the more he felt it was sort of like a compliment. Sherlock thought John interesting enough to watch. Which was good, right? Sherlock wouldn’t want to have a boring soulmate. John put the frozen dinners away, latched the breadbox, and tossed the box of tea into the cupboard he’d labelled FOOD ONLY. He’d given up trying to keep Sherlock’s experiments out of the microwave and simply wiped it out with vinegar and baking soda every time he wanted to use it. Things had grown into a strange kind of routine. Even John had to admit that they seemed to fit together. Maybe it was time…

Sherlock’s phone pinged as John put away the last of the groceries.

“It’s Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “They’ve found a body.”

“And they’re asking you to come take a look?” John asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager.

“Obviously. Come on.”

 

*****

 

John and Sherlock arrived at Loyd Park just as the crime scene tape was being tied in place. John could feel the adrenaline building, and nothing had even happened yet. But the memories of he and Sherlock running through London that past January loomed large as the detective held the tape up for John to walk through.

“Still his colleague?”

John paused and turned to see Sergent Donovan leaning against a squad car, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Yes, acutally,” John said, turning to see Sherlock striding towards a yellow SUV parked in the small lot. He took a few steps backwards, wanting to keep up with Sherlock but waiting to see if Donovan had anything else to say. She merely shook her head and rolled her eyes, turning away to talk to one of the PCs manning the cordoned area. John shrugged and jogged over to the vehicle.

“Luggage,” Sherlock said as John approached. Sherlock was finishing pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, and Lestrade handed John a pair as well.

“Yeah, just returned from holiday in Quebec, apparently.” Lestrade returned.

“He must have set this meeting up prior to his arrival,” Sherlock said.

“Meeting?”

“Nobody rents a car to drive home from the airport, not with only one suitcase, particularly not a large vehicle like this. He was meeting someone, either to take them somewhere or to give them something.”

Sherlock opened the back hatch of the vehicle and peered at the suitcase in question. He pulled out the tag, scanned it, flipped it over several times as if looking for more information, then began to pull the zipper open.

“Not before we’ve catalogued it,” Lestrade said, a warning in his voice. Sherlock huffed impatiently and stepped away.

“Let me see the body, then,” he said as a pair of officers approached to begin cataloguing the suitcase and its contents.

“Anderson’s still out there,” Lestrade said. “Thought you’d like to go over the car first.”

“Has he moved anything?” Sherlock said, nearly breaking into a run, John following looking back and forth between the detective and the DI. Lestrade simply shrugged.

John followed Sherlock at a quick lope down a wide paved path toward some playground equipment. John groaned. He really hoped it hadn’t been a kid who’d found the body. They cut through the playground toward more crime scene tape back in a copse of trees. The spot was well-hidden and John was impressed that anybody had even found a body here.

“Must be suicide,” Anderson told another officer as they approached. He spotted Sherlock and immediately went on the offensive. In both senses. “Freak and lackey. What are you two doing here?”

“Lestrade invited us to have a look.”

“God, why? It’s a suicide.”

“Mmm, no. Good try though.”

“You haven’t even seen the body!” Anderson protested, gesturing in a complicated way that was probably supposed to mean something.

“I saw the vehicle,” Sherlock said as if that explained it all. John shrugged in Anderson’s general direction as he followed the detective to a group of officers that immediately dispersed when given a very pointed glare. John knew Sherlock was well known in the Met, but this was unbelievable.

“Your reputation precedes you,” John said quietly, nodding at the retreating officers.

“Good, less tedious that way.”

Sherlock bent over the body, picking up his arms, studying his hands.

“The surrounding area has pretty much been obliterated at this point,” Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. “So I doubt there will be any trace of his killer now.”

“Sherlock, exactly how do you know this was a murder and not a suicide? He’s out in the middle of these trees, there’s only a single gunshot wound.”

Sherlock straightened and gave John a hard look.

“What’s missing?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to the body.

“I’m sorry?”

“Missing. Something very important is missing here, what is it?”

John studied the body for several seconds, then joined Sherlock in bending over it, lifting his head and turning him over. That’s when it dawned on the doctor what Sherlock was talking about.

“The gun,” John said.

“Took you long enough,” Sherlock replied. “But you did get there in the end. Difficult to shoot yourself in the head without a gun.”

“Maybe somebody took it?” John ventured, but was unconvinced himself.

“Unlikely. Who’d be looking for a gun, or much of anything else, here? It’s not secluded enough for much illegal activity, but not out in the open enough for someone to stumble upon it. Besides that, nobody heard a gunshot or the police would have been here last night, which means the weapon must have been silenced somehow; proves premeditation if not motive.”

“So this was planned,” John repeated, just to make sure he’d followed that bizarre train of thought.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock returned to examining the man, running his fingers under his collar and checking the bottoms of his shoes.

“Alright, whatcha got?” Lestrade asked as he approached, trailed by a disapproving Anderson. John thought that his face might perpetually be in a state of disapproval, as though it had stuck that way years ago.

“Male, late forties, possibly fifty, bound. On holiday to visit his mate’s family in Canada. He’s got a tattoo on his shoulder that he doesn’t like people to know about, must be something from when he was a teen. Not sure that’s relevant here, but might be.”

“Oh, come on! There is no possible way…” Anderson started, but both Lestrade and John shut him up with a pointed glare.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why else would he wear a teeshirt under a button down? He’s not that old.”

Anderson blinked several times, huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

“He probably knew his killer, they’d arranged meet here when he returned to the country. Definitely not a suicide.”

Sherlock glared at Anderson, daring him to disagree. The man had the good sense to stay shut up.

“Right. Didn’t think it made sense as a suicide where the gun went missing. We’ll notify next of kin.” Lestrade turned to Anderson and ushered him away from the body, talking in a hushed tone about jumping to conclusions. John smirked.

Sherlock rose from his position crouched over the body and returned John’s expression.

“Well, not really worth leaving the flat for, was it?” he said as the pair left the scene in a taxi.

“It was to see Anderson’s face when you told him about the tattoo,” John said, snorting in amusement at the memory.

“Still not sure it’s relevant, but yes, that was good,” Sherlock said, then added, “You’ve got one too.”

The pronouncement startled a laugh out of the doctor.

“True. Where’s mine?” John asked cheekily.

Sherlock pinned John with his eyes. This was not the casual observation that he’d grown used to at the flat. This was the power-gaze of Sherlock turning his entire focus onto one thing. It made John want to squirm in his seat, for numerous reasons.

“Ah, trick question,” Sherlock said after a moment. “You’ve two. One on your shoulder from medical school, the other on your back from the Army. Although that one was marred a bit by your injury, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t even want to know how you figured that one out,” John said, and laughed.

“No, you probably don’t,” Sherlock muttered to himself, and John didn’t hear a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the body John and Sherlock found that John talks about in his blog, but never fleshes out that I can tell.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is devious and John wants to hit somebody.

Sherlock was going to regret this later. He hated wasting food like this, but he had to meet with the man about that diamond, and if the man reacted badly he really didn’t want John to be there. Might be easier to overpower him with two, but also higher likelihood of John being injured. So, Sherlock pulled the milk out of the refrigerator and began dumping it down the drain while John was in the shower.

 

*****

 

“We need milk,” Sherlock said fifteen minutes later when John came downstairs.

“What? I just bought some three days ago.”

“We’re out.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” John said, going to open the refrigerator and look at the empty space where the milk should have been.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair with a book, one that wouldn’t embarrass him this time, and looked at John. He was working on an expression that would convince John to make up his own mind to get the milk, but he wasn’t above shoving the man out the door for his own good.

John exited the kitchen muttering about how much milk they used in this godforsaken flat, turned around and grabbed his coat and trotted down the stairs. He didn’t even _look_ at Sherlock, much less ask him to go get the milk. It worried the detective a bit that he was becoming predictable.

 

*****

 

Whoever this man was, it was definitely not who Sherlock had been expecting when he’d received Mycroft’s text that morning. He’d like Sherlock to think he was Sikh, but the details were completely wrong and besides that, no self-respecting Soldier Saint would attack him unprovoked. Mycroft would hear about this later. Preferably before the impostor was discovered in their bins by the police. Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text.

Remove unwanted item from alley - SH

Ambassador unharmed, will collect rubbish - MH

This was why Sherlock hated working with his brother. He’d sent the bugger there on purpose for Sherlock to dispose of. Well, at least Mycroft was cleaning up his own rubbish. Sherlock supposed that was something, anyway.

 

*****

 

John stomped up the stairs to the flat, carrying a carton of milk and a bag of apples for good measure. How did they go through an entire carton in three days? It was insane. John had noticed that there were only two apples in the bowl, so he’d picked up a few more. At least Sherlock would eat those of his own volition. When he returned, Sherlock was sitting at the table, staring down the computer screen as though it had insulted him. John shrugged and went to put the milk away. He returned to the sitting room, and noticed that Sherlock was not using his own computer.

“Why are you using my computer?”

“Mine was in my bedroom,” Sherlock said, shrugging.

“But it’s password protected!” John shouted, gesturing uselessly.

“Took me less than a minute to guess. Not exactly Fort Knox,” Sherlock replied, glancing up at John and pinning him with those eyes. John had a very complicated relationship with those eyes. On the one hand he thought they were about the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, sometimes green, sometimes blue, sometimes grey. But they could slice right through him, and that was…uncomfortable to say the least.

“Right, thank you,” John said, breaking the eye contact and snapping the lid shut on his laptop, nearly catching Sherlock’s fingers. He deposited the computer next to his chair, glared pointedly at the detective, and began sorting through the post he’d stacked up on the side table. None of it was good news. Bills, too many bills. One of which was so far past due it was embarrassing. That one had followed him to Baker Street from the bedsit which now seemed so long ago as to be another lifetime. No wonder it was past due.

“Need to get a job,” John murmured as he ripped open one of the envelopes, only to wince at the total due.

“Oh, dull,” Sherlock said, but whether he was talking to John or himself was debatable.

John flipped through the bills again, frustrated. He hated having to worry about money. He hated that he hated worrying about it. He set the post down again and considered his options. There was only one good one: ask Sherlock for money. The man seemed to have enough, more than if his choice of clothing was anything to go by. John wondered at that for a moment, why someone who had such expensive clothes would need a flatmate, but he merely thought himself in circles and gave up.

“Um, listen,” John began, licking his lips nervously, “If you’d be able to lend me some…” but the doctor never got to finish his thought.

Sherlock stood up suddenly and announced, “I have to go to the bank.”

 

*****

 

John was not expecting this when he’d followed Sherlock to ‘the bank.’ John was expecting the little branch around the corner from the flat, not Shad Sanderson. He stared at the foyer, feeling a bit like a tourist really, and wondering how much trouble he’d get into if he took photos. He followed Sherlock onto the escalator, and continued to stare as they approached a desk. Sherlock announced himself one of the receptionists, and they settled in to wait.

They didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, a woman came through the elevators and told the pair to follow her.

The elevator opened onto an open-concept office space with traditional offices around the perimeter. The woman showed the pair to one of those traditional offices, then swept away leaving them standing next to a desk behind which sat another woman.

“It will be just a moment, Mr. Holmes,” this woman, probably a secretary, said. Sherlock nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. He had barely spoken a word since they’d arrived. The phone on the desk rang, the woman answered it, nodded to Sherlock after a moment, and replaced the phone. Sherlock opened the office door and swept in. John was feeling rather superfluous, but followed anyway.

The man in the office was oily. Not in the dirty, unwashed sense, but sleazy and manipulative. It was something about his piggy little eyes, John thought. He disliked him immediately. The man rose and shook Sherlock’s hand as though they were old friends. John bristled.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock replied.

“How long’s it been, eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?”

John was standing out of politeness and habit. Once it became obvious that this Sebastian person was not going to shake his hand, he resumed his seat, arms crossed.

“This is my friend, John Watson,” Sherlock said.

“Friend?” Sebastian asked, the word getting caught on a chuckle.

“Problem?” John challenged.

Sebastian glanced between John and Sherlock for a few silent, uncomfortable seconds, then cleared his throat.

“Right.” He cleared his throat again. “Right, well, grab a pew. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

John was not in the mood for hospitality. Neither was Sherlock. Sebastian dismissed the secretary who’d followed them in, and then spread his hands as though he were a lord bestowing blessings on his serfs. It made John’s skin crawl.

“What has you flying all the way around the world twice in a month?” Sherlock asked. John frowned, shooting a sidelong glance at the detective.

Sebastian chuckled. “Right, you’re doing that thing,” he said, then turned to John. “We went to school together, you know? And this guy here had a trick he used to do. He could look at you and tell you your whole life story.”

John heard Sherlock murmur under his breath but couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“I’ve seen him do it,” John said to Sebastian, wishing he’d heard what Sherlock had been muttering.

“Put the wind up everybody. We hated him. You’d come down to breakfast and this freak could tell if you’d snuck out the previous night.”

Sebastian ended his little jibe with a chuckle, but John couldn’t tell what was funny. God, no wonder Sherlock was so… cold. He wasn’t really, but he tried to be. Dickheads like this must have plagued him his entire life. John had seen Anderson and Donovan, obviously, but it hadn’t really sunk in how pervasive the abuse really was. There was a part of John that wanted to beat this sonofabitch bloody. Sherlock, however, was subdued. He merely examined his hands instead of Sebastian. John really wanted him to deduce the bejesus out of the man, like he had with Anderson and Donovan at that first crime scene. But it never came.

“You’re gonna tell me there’s a ketchup stain on my tie that could only come from Manhattan, or maybe it’s the mud on my shoes!” Sebastian cackled. Sherlock looked at the banker then, the steel back in his gaze, and John’s heart leapt for just a moment.

“I was just talking to your secretary. She told me.”

What? They hadn’t said a word to his secretary. John glanced at Sherlock again, saw the smug look of satisfaction on his face, and realized that he’d stuck it to Sebastian in the best way he possibly could have: by not deducing anything. By being ordinary. Doing something that was completely against anything Sebastian had expected.

“Brilliant,” John whispered as Sebastian exited the office to show them what had happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sewin' up the plot holes!  
> And fixing a few things. You know, because they needed to be fixed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We find out why Sherlock locked John out of Eddie's flat.

Sherlock’s mind was churning over the spray-painted message in Shad Sanderson. It had to be code, but what kind? Was it even a proper language or were the symbols meant to represent other things? If they represented things, what on earth did they represent? It could be anything, like cuniform or heiroglyphics or kanji. He needed more data before he could determine what the code meant. It was a lovely little puzzle, though. Perhaps once he’d talked to Van Coon he’d have a basis for interpreting any other similar code that he might come across.

“So, is Sebastian always an arsehole or was this a special occasion?” John’s voice cut into Sherlock’s thoughts.

“He and I remember school somewhat differently, it seems,” Sherlock replied absently, only partially surfacing out of his thoughts.

“What does that mean?”

“He… Well, it hardly matters now.”

Sherlock did not want to drag this up, not now, not when he had a pretty little puzzle to solve that should be taking up all of his concentration. “That was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s head jerked around to stare at John. He was completely pulled out of his thoughts by the softly spoken words. The doctor’s face was a mess of conflicted emotions. His eyes were soft with pity, which should have made Sherlock angry, but somehow didn’t, because there was a set to his jaw that spoke of anger. Was John angry with him? But no, John’s apology did not sound facetious. The doctor was also slightly biting on his lower lip, as though there was something else he wanted to say. Sherlock sat back, turning to face John more fully in the back of the taxi, and waited.

John was instantly self-conscious when he saw the effect of his words on Sherlock. The trace of confusion he saw on the detective’s face drove a small thread of fear through his spine. Had he said something wrong? After all, this was about the closest they’d come to something more than surface babble and deductions. There was definitely a reason on John’s side that he’d been avoiding something like this, although it had occurred to him more than once that Sherlock had probably deduced John’s Name and just didn’t want anything to do with the whole soulmate thing. John told himself he was fine with that. After all, they’d found each other and were living together. Did they really need to bond?

“Sorry?” Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

“Well, I mean…” John stuttered, looking for the right words. “I guess I’m sorry that I didn’t…” John stopped, making a complicated gesture that tried to convey what he couldn’t find the words for. Sherlock merely waited, scrutinizing John, attempting to deduce what was going on in his mind. It was not so simple as he’d expected.

“Look, I know people hate you, yeah? But it didn’t really occur to me that it was for your whole life. That sounds stupid and immature, but it’s the truth, and I’m sorry it happened and I wish it would have been different.” John let out the remainder of his breath in a whoosh. The words weren’t exactly what he’d hoped they’d be. They never were. It’s part of the reason he hated talking about things like this, he could never find the words he wanted when he needed them. All this emotional stuff should just take care of itself. He rather envied Sherlock his ability to ignore it.

Sherlock allowed his eyes to widen slightly before schooling his features into something more stoic than the tumult that was occurring in his chest. He managed a fairly stable ‘thank you,’ before he turned to the window and felt the heat behind his eyes. This wasn’t good. He had to keep it together, there was a case, and he needed his entire focus to be on that, not this, not John Watson apologizing for decades of what amounted to peer abuse at the hands of the ignorant. Sherlock had thought he’d locked that all away, had gotten over it, but no. Sebastian had broken it all open again, of course he had, and now here was his friend, probably his mate, acknowledging that it was a shitty way to grow up and apologizing for it. Was it any wonder that his carefully constructed facade was crumbling before his very eyes? Sherlock desperately pulled at the walls of his mind palace, reconstructing rooms and hallways as quickly as he could to hold this new information and hopefully contain it before… Well, he’d expected one to escape. He dug at his eyes with the heels of his hands until all the unshed tears had been squeezed out and his mind was calm again.

He’d pulled himself together enough by the time they’d reached Van Coon’s block that he was fairly certain that John had no clue how close he’d been to pulling the detective apart. Sherlock eyed the panel of buzzers, finding Van Coon’s, and pressing it rather more sharply than was necessary. He might look put together, but there were still walls crumbling inside his mind palace that he couldn’t quite reconstruct while he was in the middle of a case, so they would have to wait. They were in the older sections of the palace, anyway, and would keep. He’d locked the dungeons years ago.

There was no answer from Van Coon’s flat. Either he wasn’t home or wouldn’t answer his door. Either possibility was equally viable. But Sherlock needed to get into his flat. There had to be some clue to the code there. The detective ran his finger down the list of tenants again, stopping at the floor above Van Coon’s. Paper label with ‘Wintle’ written in blue ink. New neighbor, then.

“Just moved in,” Sherlock said to John, who’d been standing behind him scanning the street. For what, Sherlock didn’t care to guess.

“What?”

“Floor above, new label.”

“Could have just replaced it,” John said. Sherlock gave him a few points for thinking outside the box on that, but it wasn’t the case here.

“No-one ever does that.”

Sherlock pressed the buzzer for Wintle and waited for a moment. Probably a woman, based on the handwriting. He pulled up his ‘harmless idiot’ persona.

“Hello?” came the woman’s voice from the intercom. Sherlock shot John a knowing glance, then peered up into the camera above the intercom panel and smiled. He knew it was a fake smile, but he made it reflect in his eyes anyway. Needed to be convincing.

“Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you, I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No, well, uh, I’ve just moved in.”

Sherlock fought to keep a triumphant grin off his face, and settled for shooting John another glance. He tried not to hear that apology every time he looked at his face. He was mostly successful.

“Actually, I’ve just locked my keys in my flat.”

“Want me to buzz you in?”

This was too easy. “Yeah,” Sherlock threw in a little nervous lip-biting just for good measure, “And can I use your balcony?”

“What?”

 

Sherlock told John to stay put, partially to keep Ms. Wintle from becoming too suspicious and partially because he just couldn’t have him follow right now. He needed time, time to put everything back in its place and build up the walls again. God, he hated that it had been so easy for John to rip apart years of carefully constructed heartlessness. Was this how it would be to be bound? It caused Sherlock to rethink what he’d been planning to do. Perhaps this bonding wasn’t what he wanted, after all?

Sherlock pushed everything out of his head as he knocked on Ms. Wintle’s door. He locked it away in a room, he needed to be on right now, needed to be focused.

The woman let him into her flat, he smiled prettily at her and thanked her as the ‘harmless idiot,’ and made a beeline for the balcony. Just as he’d expected, he could drop down onto Van Coon’s own balcony from Ms. Wintle’s. Who had followed him to the door and was vainly trying to get him to tell her his name. Sherlock ignored her completely and dropped over her railing onto the balcony below. Van Coon wasn’t paranoid enough to lock his balcony door, thank goodness. What reason would he need, really, he was four floors up. The flat seemed empty at first glance, but Sherlock didn’t trust first glances.

The door buzzer sounded, and John called Sherlock’s name. Sherlock ignored his instinct to open the door, and continued perusing the flat.

“Sherlock, you okay?” There was a worried tone to John’s question, and it took just about every last ounce of willpower he possessed, which was considerable, to refuse to open the door. _No, not yet. Please John, let me get things under control again, and then…_

“Any time you feel like letting me in,” John said.

Ah. That was it. It was more than an interesting experiment, more than a companion that couldn’t leave. Bonding meant so much more than that, and Sherlock hadn’t realized it until John had so easily broken in. And now Sherlock found himself _physically_ limiting John, it was insane.

He’d tried every door in the flat, save one. And this one was locked. Strange that the occupant hadn’t come looking with all the commotion they’d been causing. Sherlock shoved his shoulder against the door and it popped open. Interior doors were never made to withstand any kind of force. And as he pushed open the double doors, he realized why Eddie Van Coon had not come out to see what all the fuss was about. He was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was tough, I'm not gonna lie. Hope the payoff is good, though. *crosses fingers*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shuts down, John doesn't pry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank you all enough for your comments, questions, kudos, bookmarks! It makes me want to write more!
> 
> I have to say, however, that the posting rate may decrease to three times a week. Real life sucks sometimes.

John had followed Sherlock through the main door to the block of flats, but had gone straight to Van Coon’s door. Sherlock hadn’t needed to explain that it would be much easier for one person to get into a strange woman’s flat, but he had anyway. At length. Something about keeping his distance, letting him work. Sherlock hadn’t so much as glanced at John as he stalked up the stairs. What he’d neglected to tell John was that he would be left outside the man’s flat, uselessly ringing the doorbell, trying to get the man to let him in.

He wasn’t sure what to expect after the…well, it wasn’t really a conversation. That implied a two-way exchange, and this was basically John saying shit and Sherlock shutting down. John wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he’d said that, but it wasn’t Sherlock looking like he’d been hit by a long-distance lorry. John wasn’t sure what to do after that, and had settled for staring out the window of the cab, stiff and uncomfortable as he heard two heavy sighs and a sniffle. He’d wanted to bundle the man into his arms, pet his hair. Tell him that everybody was an arsehole who didn’t appreciate his genius. But he hadn’t, couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, because that would be awkward, more awkward than sitting and ignoring what Sherlock was trying to hide so unsuccessfully. But maybe that was wrong, the wrong thing to do, because now he’d been locked out of Van Coon’s flat. Locked out. Keeping his distance indeed.

“Any time you feel like letting me in,” John said through the door. _Into the flat, for starters. I’d settle for into the flat at this point._

John wasn’t sure when it had changed, in his mind, from keeping his Name a secret for himself to keeping it secret to somehow protect Sherlock. Somewhere between shooting the cabbie and kicking Sherlock’s dirty pants out from behind the bathroom door every morning (cotton boxer briefs, not that he’d tried to notice), he’d decided that when the time was right, he’d reveal his Name. But the time had never been right, there had never been that moment when he’d felt like it was appropriate to tell the detective something he must already have known and dismissed. And if there was anything Sherlock detested, it was someone trying to tell him something he already knew. And so it went unsaid, continued to go unsaid. And if John were honest with himself, maybe there was something of self-preservation in the omission. After all, even if John himself was beginning to come to terms with having a soulmate, a partner in this crazy life, Sherlock didn’t seem the type to give two shits about it. And it was easier to just go on as they had than to try to change it, be flatly rejected and told that bonding would interfere with the Work. John wasn’t sure he could handle that level of dismissal, and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would understand what he’d done. And he sure as hell didn’t know which was worse.

 

*****

 

Sherlock finally opened the door after he’d phoned Lestrade. He said nothing as John walked around the flat, looking at a man’s life interrupted. Suicide, looked like. Locked doors, single gun found near the body. Seemed pretty cut and dried to John. But Sherlock kept staring at random things; the phone, the bread left out in the kitchen, the coffee mug in the sitting room. There had to be something significant about those items, but John couldn’t quite wrap his head around what. Of course, once the police arrived, it was all chaos and pissing contests with the new DI and deductions.

John had nearly laughed aloud when Sherlock went into his contortion act trying to shoot himself in the right temple with his left hand. It was also a terrible deduction. John himself was left-handed but always, always shot with his right. It took more concentration and made him a better shot. Even more so now with that ridiculous tremor that seemed to crop up at inconvenient moments. He hadn’t had a tremor or even an ache in his hand for a couple weeks, though. John tried not to roll his eyes while Sherlock expounded upon Van Coon’s endemic left-handedness.

Sherlock had just about finished with his performance, which had been quite fun to watch actually, although John was certain it could have been delivered with slightly less scorn. John felt a bit sorry for Dimmock, but only a bit. Lestrade had obviously not told him what to expect, because even though he knew who Sherlock was, he was obviously ill prepared for the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes. Of course, John wasn’t sure anybody could prepare for that.

Sherlock had stalked out of the flat, muttering about the incompetency of the police, and John had followed two and a half steps behind, trying to catch up without actively jogging. What had happened to the Sherlock who’d waited for John at crime scenes? It was like the detective was almost trying to run away, leave him behind, keep his distance. It had something to do with Sebastian, John suddenly realized. Sherlock was being rude even for him, and the only catalyst that John could see was Sebastian. What was it about that man?

 

*****

 

Sherlock was slowly pulling it together, the case was becoming interesting. How did a killer get to the fourth-floor balcony without going through the building? And why would he warn the man first? There was a warning approximately six hours before he was killed. It all hinged on the content of the message, didn’t it. If it was a simple threat, then Van Coon would’ve known why he was being threatened. But who was doing the threatening? And how the bloody hell did they get into the bank? It must have been from the balcony, it was the only way to access that office without swiping a card. This was twice someone had accessed a balcony door that was above ground. Twice _could_ be a coincidence but the universe was rarely that lazy. Somehow, the killer and the person who’d left the message, the balance of probability pointed to them being the same person but it wasn’t proved yet, could climb. If there was a third instance, it would be irrefutable. He would have to wait, and he hated waiting.

 

*****

 

He could hear John’s footsteps behind him, knew the doctor was rushing to keep up, but he quickened his steps instead. He’d tried to include John at the crime scene, told him all the deductions, had been impressed when he’d thought John had actually realized that Van Coon had been threatened at the bank, but not terribly upset that he hadn’t. But every time Sherlock looked into John’s eyes, really looked, that soft pity seemed to be there and he couldn’t stand it. He was not a man to be pitied. He was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, the only one in the world, he’d invented the job. There was nothing to pity there. He was probably the second-most intelligent human being in Britain, possibly the world. He didn’t need anyone’s pity, least of all John’s. His friend. God, his friend, his only friend, his _mate_ , pitied him. It began to eat at him in a way that he didn’t understand, this idea that John pitied him. It festered in the taxi on the way to Sebastian’s luncheon meeting. It became an open wound in his mind palace, seeping resentment, as they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock hadn’t said two words together directly to John since they’d left Van Coon’s flat.

Sherlock’s studied silence was weighing on John. It reinforced the idea that the problem, somehow, stemmed from Sebastian because the silence had gotten heavier after they’d tried to talk to the banker in the loo at some high-end restaurant. John was genuinely beginning to hate that man. John wondered if he should try to pull the story out of the detective, if that would help, but that was emotional shit again, and John wasn’t sure he could handle another one today. He spent the remainder of the afternoon watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye as he updated his CV to send out to a couple surgeries that were looking to hire. He really was overqualified for neighborhood surgeries, but it was money. And he desperately needed money.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of time spent in Sherlock's mind palace...

John got a call-back from one of the surgeries he’d applied to about three days later. In that time, it felt as though a rift had grown between him and Sherlock and John couldn’t think of a way to bridge the gap. He’d tried joking, asking about case details, he’d even purposely touched Sherlock in the same way the detective had countless times in the past few months. Nothing. Well, the one time he’d touched him, he’d gotten a ferocious glare for his trouble and decided that he wasn’t going to try that again. So the day he left the flat for his interview, he glanced at Sherlock sitting and staring at the case notes in the mirror, sighed, and left.

 

*****

 

Sherlock had barely moved in three days, trying seriously to discover the origins of the coded message that had been left for Van Coon. That and devote as much spare thought as he could to reconstructing his mind palace, reinforcing some of the more vital areas and completely re-designing the dungeon. The stairway looked suspiciously like that stairway in Brixton, where he and John had gone to examine the pink lady, and the rooms had arranged themselves in a manner similar to the rooms there. Larger, obviously, more hallways, but the general layout was the same.

Sherlock took a few steps down into the dungeon, to check on the damage. Most of the locks had been opened, and a few of the doors stood open, the yawning blackness behind them beckoning the detective to enter. Sherlock resisted the urge and began re-assembling locks and shutting doors. He’d nearly finished, having three doors left to lock, when one of the open doors slammed into him from behind as he attempted to fix the lock and shoved him into the blackness beyond.

 

*****

 

“Nameless freak,” David Purcy’s voice was low and dangerous and Sherlock had not been prepared for this, but he should have been. He’d humiliated Purcy in front of his goons. “Not surprised, you know,” Purcy hissed into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock was held by three of Purcy’s followers, Sherlock had deleted their names as irrelevant. Knowing their names would not improve their personalities in the slightest. There was one goon holding each arm, and a third with a flick knife held against his throat to make sure he didn’t move. Sherlock was rather pleased that it had taken all three of them to subdue him, and Lefthand Goon would have a nasty black eye to show for his trouble the next day. He’d had to admit defeat, however, when the knife had come out. While he was quite good with unarmed opponents, weapons were another thing altogether.

“What, you think I wouldn’t find out?” Purcy sneered as he stalked away from Sherlock. He turned on his heel, facing Sherlock again, his hands clasped behind his back. “You know who told me, don’t you. Go on.”

“How could I possibly know that?” Sherlock said. Purcy advanced on him and punched, connecting just under the ribs. Sherlock had been expecting a blow, so he wasn’t breathless after the attack, but it hurt quite a bit more than he’d anticipated. Sherlock would not underestimate the boy again.

“Your trick,” Purcy said. “Go on, you’ll say there’s some kind of hair on my trousers or something, and that’ll tell you who I talked to.”

Sherlock didn’t need to look at Purcy’s trousers to know who’d told him Sherlock was Nameless. It was a lie, but perhaps a useful one in the long run. Sherlock could deal with the avoidance and uncomfortable glances, he’d gotten them ever since Mummy and Dad had introduced him to other children. Sherlock preferred the company of Redbeard, but for some reason, Mummy was convinced he needed _people_.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock said, resigned. While Sebastian had been more understanding than most he was still uncomfortable around Sherlock and would half-heartedly join in with Purcy’s group when he thought it would keep him from being a target himself.

“Got it in one,” Purcy said, and punched Sherlock again. Sherlock couldn’t swallow the groan as the blow landed. Purcy smirked. “D’you know what happens to freaks like you?” Purcy whispered as he drew close to Sherlock again. “No, I don’t think you do. I think I’ll teach you.” Purcy swooped his hand in a grand circle, which must have been some pre-arranged signal to the goons. The arm goons lifted Sherlock by his biceps and began carrying him away from the greenhouse and towards the small woods on the edge of campus.

Sherlock had a single moment of panic that they would kill him. But that would be ridiculous. There was no way Purcy’s father would overlook a homicide at his school. Knife Goon stuck the point of his weapon into the small of Sherlock’s back as they carried him to the woods. Once there, they forced him facedown on the ground. One goon sat on his arms and one on his legs. Sherlock couldn’t see which ones, his face was pressed into the pine needles that covered the ground there.

“You’re not going to enjoy this,” Purcy said, “but I think I might.”

 

*****

 

Sherlock stumbled out of the room before the memory could play out in its entirety. He slammed the door and locked it, adding two extra bolts, just to be sure. He was breathing hard, bent over with his hands on his knees, staring at the door. Some things could never be deleted, no matter how hard he tried.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. _Who the hell is in here with me? Nobody’s allowed down here._

“I wish it had never happened.”

Sherlock spun around, and was faced with John wearing an oatmeal colored jumper just as he was the day he’d come to see the Baker Street flat. Sherlock was preparing to throw him out of the dungeon when John stopped him.

“It’s not pity. Look deeper,” John said, then held out his hand.

Sherlock studied John for a moment, contemplating. If it wasn’t pity, what on earth was it?

“Empathy, you idiot,” John said, the insult sounding more like a nickname. Sherlock blinked at John for a moment. It was the one reaction that had never crossed his mind because it was such a rare occurrence in his life he’d all but deleted that particular motivation. It cast an entirely different light on their conversation in the taxi. Now that he looked at it, he’d suspected at the start, but it was so far beyond what Sherlock was expecting, he’d convinced himself it couldn’t be true.

John still offered his hand and Sherlock took it, locking the last two doors on his way out of the dungeon.

John led Sherlock to his case-room, two flights up, that now looked like the sitting room in 221B. It had been morphing slowly ever since he’d moved in, the space being extremely comfortable and easy to work in. It made sense for it to exist here, as well.

“Alright, everything downstairs is fixed up now, right? It’s time to work on the case,” John said. He sat Sherlock in his chair and patted him on the shoulder again.

“Could you pass me a pen?” Sherlock asked, but John was gone.

 

*****

 

John returned to the flat after his interview, which had gone well. He’d be doing locum work at the surgery for at least a few months, one of the doctors had left to have a baby. And Sarah had been nice enough to work with. John hung up his coat and sighed. Sherlock was just where he’d left him two hours ago.

“I said, could you pass me a pen?” Sherlock said, as though John had been there the first time he’d voiced the request.

“What? When?” John asked, looking around for someone else in the flat. The request was voiced in such a bizarre way.

“’Bout an hour ago,” Sherlock replied.

John rolled his eyes, a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t notice I’d gone out then?” he said, and picked up a pen, tossing it to the detective absently. Sherlock caught it without looking. John paused for a fraction of a second to appreciate that feat. He could do that a thousand times, and it would always impress the doctor. Sherlock was staring intently into space. John approached the mirror that was now half-covered in Sherlock’s notes and photographs. The whole thing looked like a jumbled mess to John, but it must make some kind of sense to the detective, so he left it alone.

“I went to go see about that job at the surgery,” John said, as though Sherlock would respond to such dull conversation.

“How was it?”

John turned around and squinted at Sherlock, disbelief clouding his face. Was he actually interested, or just… No, he must be interested. Sherlock did not ask questions he didn’t need the answer to.

“Great, it was… great,” John said, trying to inject more interest into his voice than he really felt. It would be nice to have some extra money, but the prospect of a litany of flus and ear infections did not really excite him.

Sherlock heard the forced attempt at enthusiasm. John was not one for the mundane, that much had been obvious to Sherlock from the very beginning. He nodded toward his laptop, which sat open on the table.

“Here, have a look.”

John approached the table and leaned in to read the article that had been pulled up.

“A mystery for the police force, the intruder that can walk through walls,” John read, giving Sherlock a curious look.

“Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside. Exactly the same as Van Coon.” Sherlock gave John a pointed look. Nobody could be that dense.

“God, you think…” John said.

Sherlock grinned. “He’s killed another one.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want lucky cat?"
> 
> Ok, that doesn't qualify as a summary, but I love that line.

After days of being ignored or receiving hostile glances, it felt odd for Sherlock to be speaking to him civilly. Well, civil for Sherlock, anyway. Perhaps it had all been a fit of pique on the detective’s part, and if so John was more than willing to let it go. However it was, they seemed to be working together again, and that was something, anyway. But John was beginning to wonder what 'working together' meant to Sherlock.

The handcuffs had been unnecessary. He supposed it was because of the content of Raz’s lovely artwork that they decided to cuff him, but they could just be arseholes. John wasn’t really sure how long he’d sat at the station, waiting on the custody sergeant, but it was a hell of a lot longer than it needed to be. This was not what he had been anticipating when he’d followed Sherlock to the National Gallery.

John could feel the resentment bubbling up inside as he returned to Baker Street. He could taste the irritation in the back of his throat. And as he entered the flat, to see Sherlock standing at the fireplace, staring at all those goddamned symbols, it all but exploded.

“You took your time,” the detective said idly as John slammed the front door.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don’t really like to be hurried, do they?” John spat, his hands balled into fists and shoved in his pockets to keep from hitting something, like maybe Sherlock. “Just formalities, fingerprints, charge sheet. I’ve gotta be in Magistrate’s Court on Tuesday.” John finally stopped pacing the sitting room and glared at the back of Sherlock’s head. Was he even listening?

“What?”

No, no the bloody sod was not listening, and John had just about had it up to here. He stalked over to the detective and took him by the arms, turning Sherlock so he had to face him.

“Me, Sherlock, in court, on Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO.” John wanted to shake him, maybe throw him into the cold fireplace. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so absolutely, completely incensed at a person before. He didn’t do either of those things, of course, he merely let go of Sherlock with a little extra force. “So any time your little pal wants to own up…”

Sherlock studied John curiously for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly, then looked away. He pointed to the symbols that now covered nearly three-quarters of the mirror.

“This symbol, I can’t place it.”

John threw his hands in the air, exasperation getting the better of him, and it was either that or punch the madman in the face and John really didn’t think he should do that right about now. He started shrugging out of his coat, but Sherlock pulled it right back on again.

“No, I need you to go to the police station,” the detective said, nearly shoving John back out the door.

“Oi! Seriously?” John said, trying to pull away.

“Ask about the journalist,” Sherlock continued, “His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements. I’m going to go see Van Coon’s P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they’ll coincide.”

 

*****

 

What did one say when his friend got arrested because he didn’t think for two seconds about running away from the police? It was his own fault for standing around like a lamppost while the CSOs barreled down the alley. But John had been furious with Sherlock. Sherlock considered this on his way back to Shad Sanderson. Sherlock had felt a bit bad that John was so angry, and it had been a hot rage, too, not the cold seeping anger he was accustomed to and could effectively ignore. John had wanted to strike him. He’d had to shove his hands into his pockets initially to keep the impulse in check. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to look at John, then, hadn’t wanted to see the anger in his eyes. Why? Usually the way others felt didn’t bother Sherlock in the slightest. He’d stopped caring how his actions affected people.

John, however, seemed to be the exception that proved the rule yet again. Sherlock found that he honestly cared about how John reacted, and the anger John displayed had been uncomfortable to say the least. It was why he’d bundled him out of the flat again so quickly. Sherlock knew how to ignore or counter the cold resentment most others directed at him, but this seething hot anger was completely foreign.

Sherlock tucked that away with all the other ‘John’ things that he wanted to analyze later. This was becoming tedious and had probably impacted his ability to solve this case. No, he was certain it had, and that was completely unacceptable. Something would have to be done.

What was John expecting from Sherlock when he’d come in all snarling and tense? To understand John’s anger and respond to it in some way? Yes, he supposed that was what people did. He had shut down his response to others’ emotions a long time ago, convincing himself that their reactions were their problem and that they were just over-sensitive or lying to themselves about things that were so painfully obvious to him. It wasn’t his fault that everyone was an idiot.

Sherlock snarled and shoved John and his incomprehensibilty into his room in his mind palace and spent the rest of the cab ride to Shad Sanderson thinking about how Van Coon and Lukis were connected.

 

*****

 

John tried to keep his anger boiling just under the surface, but the fact of the matter was his temper was like a flash bomb, it would flare quickly but once it had been spent was useless and seemed to leave little damage in its wake. John had been hoping for an apology, but he hadn’t really been expecting one. And now he was on his way to NSY to ask Dimmock for evidence that had been impounded. It was crazy. But that’s how things were with Sherlock, wasn’t it? Just a little bit to the left of normal. Well, alright, sometimes it was completely perpendicular to normal, but John had to admit, even when it was infuriating it was fun. Except for sitting in the police station waiting for the custody sergeant. That had been the opposite of fun. But what had he expected? Well, clearly he’d expected a graffiti artist to wait around to be arrested, which was ridiculous in hindsight. He still didn’t forgive Sherlock for not sticking around, but, well. John shook his head and sighed. He could still be upset about the ASBO, and he was, but John himself had been a class A idiot for standing around.

He arrived at the Yard and when Dimmock was told who was asking for him, immediately allowed John up. It was a rather monosyllabic conversation as John asked for Lukis’s diary, but Dimmock had complied with little resistance.

“Your friend,” he’d said as he dug through the last box, “Is an arrogant sod.”

“Well, that’s mild! People say a lot worse than that.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve heard them.” Dimmock tilted his head to the right, thoughtfully. “Here’s the diary,” Dimmock said and he held the small book out to John. The doctor immediately flipped it open. Inside were Chinese airline tickets dated for the previous Friday. Wasn’t Van Coon connected to China, too? Hong Kong? It seemed relevant, but that wasn’t John’s job here. He was supposed to figure out where Lukis had gone the day he died. And lo and behold, there was an address, right there, written right on the day he died. Looked to be somewhere in Chinatown. Van Coon worked in Hong Kong, Lukis was a journalist who specialised in China, and this address in his diary was in Chinatown. John wondered, briefly, if the cipher was Chinese, but surely Sherlock would have figured that out by now. Wouldn’t he?

 

*****

 

Sherlock didn’t have a lot to go on, but it was enough to be getting on with. He muttered to himself as he passed the espresso bar that Van Coon had visited, and turned around to walk backwards for a few steps, looking for any kind of clue that could tell him where Van Coon had gone before grabbing an Italian coffee. He backed straight into someone, and flipped around, only to be confronted with one John Watson.

“Right,” John said, both surprised and strangely not surprised to see Sherlock there.

“Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died,” Sherlock began, his words nearly tripping over each other as they spilled out. “Whatever was hidden inside that case. I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information: credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here. Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don’t know where…”

“Sherlock!” John finally all but shouted. The detective was still moving, but his mouth had stopped. “That shop, over there.”

Sherlock frowned at John. “How can you tell?”

“Lukis’s diary,” the doctor replied, handing the book to Sherlock. “He was here too. Wrote down the address.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said, a bit irritated at the anti-climax of having the address spelled out.

 

*****

 

Sherlock held the door of the shop open for John as they entered. John greeted the shopkeeper, and browsed, a bit creeped out by the phalanx of lucky cats. Their eyes seemed to follow him everywhere. Unnerving to say the least.

Sherlock paused for just a moment when he noticed the woman behind the counter. She was wearing a hideous red blouse with tiny white flowers on it. He was certain he’d seen that garment before, but it took him a moment to figure out where. It was the restaurant he’d gone to after John had shot the cabbie; the excellent Chinese place. She had been their waitress that night, filling in for her granddaughter. The nose, the jawline, the arthritis. It had to be the same woman. Why was she in two different places that connected, even tenuously, with murder inquiries? And the restaurant they’d gone to was on the other side of London from here, it wasn’t a mere accident that she’d been both places. What was the connection? Sherlock wandered over to a display of atrocious knockoff statuettes, pretending to be interested in them as he thought furiously.

“You want Lucky Cat?” the shopkeeper asked John as he browsed near the counter.

“No, no thank you,” John replied. He’d never bring one of those into the flat, thanks anyway. They were creepy.

“Ten pound, ten pound! For your mate?” the woman went so far as to hold one up invitingly.

“No,” John said again, smiling awkwardly at this seeming desperation. He turned away from the woman pointedly and began inspecting handle-less teacups that had been painted with what he assumed were traditional Chinese images. But John didn’t know a great deal about it, really. He picked one up idly and turned it over in his hands. There, written on a sticky-tag on the bottom, was one of the symbols from the cipher. John looked around for a moment before smiling to himself. It had been Chinese!

“Sherlock,” John said. “Come look at this.”

John felt the detective lean over his shoulder, but didn’t turn to look.

“The label,” John said, his voice suddenly sounding very loud in the small shop.

“Yes, I see it.”

“It’s exactly the same!” John beamed. He had no idea what it meant, but he’d guessed the cipher was some kind of Chinese, and considered himself rather clever at the moment.


	17. Chapter 17

John was angry. Not ‘you got me arrested’ angry, not quite, but it was starting to get really fucking close, and John wanted to break down the door to the flat and consequences be damned, but he wasn’t strong enough to do that, and all he could do was ring the doorbell annoyingly and shout things through the mail slot. Sherlock had left him outside again. Why, he couldn’t fathom, but perhaps it wasn’t purposeful this time? He had shouted out the window at him, maybe Sherlock hadn’t realized that John couldn’t reach the fire escape. Which was more annoying, really? Being purposely left behind or accidentally? Did it matter?

John stalked the sidewalk in front of the flat, gesticulating wildly trying to burn off some of his irritation. This ‘leaving John behind’ business was getting to be truly frustrating, and he would definitely have a talk with Sherlock about it later. Later as in the next time they were in a taxi which was about the only time John could get the detective’s undivided, well, relatively undivided he didn’t think the man ever only thought about one thing, attention.

Sherlock opened the door abruptly as John went to ring the bell again. The doctor gave him his most aggravated glare.

“The, uh, the milk’s gone off and the washing’s starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry.”

John frowned at Sherlock’s words. His voice was all…croaky. He never sounded like that.

“Somebody?” John asked, wondering at the sudden change in Sherlock’s voice.

“Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock replied, then attempted to clear his throat for a moment. “We have to find her.”

“How, exactly?”

“Maybe we could start with this.” Sherlock handed John an envelope with National Antiquities Museum printed on it.

Sherlock stalked off down the road, looking for a taxi, and John trotted off after him. After he’d caught up, he looked at Sherlock seriously for a moment.

“You’ve gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock replied, followed by a rather upsetting bout of coughing. John didn’t believe that for a second.

“Right, fine,” he said as Sherlock hailed a taxi.

The pair were inside the taxi on their way to the National Antiquities Museum. John turned to see Sherlock more clearly and took a breath.

“You gonna tell me what’s really going on, or are you working alone again?”

Sherlock studied John for a moment.

“It’s efficient,” Sherlock replied. In the most recent instance, it had also kept John from being injured or possibly killed.

“Effi… Christ, Sherlock. What the fuck happened to the ‘I need an assistant’ business?”

“It helps at crime scenes, particularly with murder victims. You’ll recall as soon as I realized Van Coon was dead, I let you into his apartment. Also, you were along for the investigation of Lukis’s flat. I fail to see…” Sherlock’s words died as he registered John’s expression.

“Then you’re going to have to make up your mind,” John said, his voice dangerously soft. “Either I’m your friend, or I’m your colleague. Which is it?”

John swallowed hard after this. He hadn’t meant it to come out as an ultimatum. His temper had gotten the better of him this time, saying things he really should have thought through beforehand.

Sherlock was taken aback by John’s words. Had he not heard Sherlock introduce him as a friend to Sebastian? Or did he think that was not true? This was truly unexpected.

“You are my friend, John. Was I not clear?”

“No, Sherlock. No, you weren’t clear at all, actually.” John’s voice was becoming incrementally louder as he went on. “You spent three whole days avoiding me, or glaring at me like I’m some kind of pest. Then you suddenly open up, bring me along to Lukis’s flat, and then you get me arrested, I’m still a bit angry at that by the way, don’t apologize for leaving me standing there, don’t even acknowledge it was a crap thing to do, just bundle me off again to run your errands! What the hell am I supposed to think? And that’s before you leave me outside, again, while who knows what is going on. Which reminds me, why, exactly, did you have trouble speaking when you came down from the flat?” Well, it felt good to get it off his chest, anyway. He wasn’t sure it was the most eloquent delivery, however.

Sherlock was trying to parse this as quickly as he could. John was asking for an apology, that much was obvious as he’d said so. Sherlock had behaved in a way that was counterproductive, that much was also obvious based on John’s irritation. If it had been anyone else sitting there, Sherlock would shrug it off as irrelevant. Emotional rubbish. But this was John. And John was not something Sherlock could shrug off, nor did he want to. Fine, then, work through it a bit at a time.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock began. John was in some distress over this, and it was important for Sherlock to understand. There was so much, and it was so messy and it was so much easier when he hadn’t cared.

“That’s a good start,” John said.

“I fail to see how your getting arrested is my fault,” John started to speak, but Sherlock stopped him, “However, I have noted your anger and I find it very distracting. You, generally, are distracting for numerous reasons, one of which is your name.” Sherlock blinked several times, not really believing that had come out of his mouth. He was too distracted, too fragmented. He hadn’t been concentrating.

“My…my name?”

“Obviously.”

“Sherlock, what does that mean?” John was afraid to ask, but he couldn’t just leave it there, not now, not like that.

“I’ve done a great deal of thinking about names. Your name, in particular.” Sherlock locked eyes with John for the first time in days. He fell into them, and John wasn’t looking away. He felt the need to touch, and this time he allowed the instinct to move his hand.

Sherlock didn’t say anything else, he merely placed his hand over John’s. The doctor’s eyes widened, darting from the hand covering his own to Sherlock’s eyes, which were infuriatingly inscrutable.

Sherlock’s hand was warm, warmer than John expected. He stared at Sherlock’s fingers covering his, dwarfing his hand, his pale skin against John’s slightly darker tone. This was it, then. John had to say something. What was he going to say? This was really happening, right now, in the back of a cab on the way to the National Antiquities Museum.

“Uhm,” John said eloquently, and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Sherlock had been such an arsehole lately. But, even after everything, John still felt drawn to him in a way that he had difficulty comprehending. John turned his hand up under Sherlock’s and laced his fingers between the detective’s. “Yeah, me too.”

 

*****

 

There was a calm that settled over the detective as John laced his fingers into his. Somehow, all the static that had plagued him for months seemed to clear. There were still questions, there would always be questions, but the mental static that had been making his deductions difficult seemed to be gone, or at least greatly diminished. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the uncluttered space that had opened up in his mind palace. He wandered aimlessly around the upper floors, occasionally flitting into a room full of chemical equations or soil samples. There was no debris scattered around anymore, nothing to trip on or stumble over.

 

*****

 

Of all the possible scenarios John had thought about over the years, sideways admissions of Names and holding hands in the back of a taxi had never featured. John was still scared, but it was a dull kind of fear, as though it was an emotional habit as opposed to true feeling. Their hands lay intertwined between them on the seat. Sherlock had immediately relaxed into the seat and closed his eyes, probably putting pieces of the case together. John knew he often thought with his eyes closed.

This…this was good. John wondered, briefly, why he had waited so long, but all the reasons came tumbling into his head too readily and he wasn’t going to ruin this one moment by bringing all that up now. Besides, it was irrelevant. He watched Sherlock thinking beside him, wondering not for the first time what game fate was playing with him. Why had fate handed him such a gorgeously infuriating man?

John had always appreciated Sherlock’s physical beauty, all alabaster and ebony with piercing eyes that shifted color. John’s thinking about Sherlock had led to more than his fair share of late-night push-ups followed by cold morning showers. He still had no idea how Sherlock would react to that, so he settled on pressing a kiss to the detective’s hand.

 

*****

 

Sherlock was gleefully throwing open doors on the ground floor, pulling bits and pieces from his ‘codes and ciphers’ room along with whatever scraps of Chinese he’d managed to pick up; it hadn’t been one of the languages he’d ever considered studying. He considered rectifying that once this case was solved. But he needed more data, there wasn’t enough data to solve the cipher. Even though he knew what they’d found were numbers, 15 and 1, he had no other reference for what they could possibly mean. There just wasn’t enough…

“Hello.”

Sherlock whirled to face the voice. John stood behind him, his hands in his pockets. He shrugged and grinned, ducking his head as though he were a bit embarrassed to be there.

“I didn’t open your door,” Sherlock said and approached John slowly.

“Yeah, I know. I opened it myself.”

“You what?” Sherlock was incredulous.

“Opened the door. It gets boring being cooped up all the time, you know.” John grinned at him.

“That’s not supposed to happen,” Sherlock said, staring at John.

“Neither is this, I think.”

John closed the small distance between them, brushing calloused fingers across Sherlock’s cheek. He smiled softly, his hand running over the detective’s shoulder, down his arm, to take his hand. He lifted Sherlock’s hand to his lips, and Sherlock’s heart seemed to stop as John ghosted a kiss across his knuckles.

 

*****

 

“Sherlock,” John said as the cab idled at the curb. “Sherlock, come on, we’re there.”

“Hmm? Oh, excellent.” Sherlock pulled himself out of the taxi and strode toward the main entrance, coat flapping dramatically behind him. John smiled and caught up to his detective, hands comfortably in his coat pockets, and they entered the museum together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.
> 
> Definitely not what John was expecting, but hey.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm craptacular at summaries. You know what's coming anyway, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I didn't die, I was just trying to find the right way to continue, and I think I have it. Enjoy!!

John was glowing. He was absolutely certain that every single random stranger they bumped into in that museum could see it. The ghost of a smile played about his lips, he stood a bit straighter, his eyes were bright, following Sherlock’s every move.

In the end it had been easy, almost too easy. Granted, it hadn’t really been said, out loud, with both of them divulging their Names to the other. Maybe it didn’t need to be said. That’s how things kind of were with Sherlock, he assumed that John knew what he was talking about until John asked specifically. John still wanted to hear it though, out loud, in that unmistakable baritone voice. It was important, that moment. Perhaps when this case was solved, he’d take some of Sebastian’s money and… what? Sherlock was probably not one for the typical movie-and-dinner fare. Sherlock would deduce the movie after the first five minutes, declare it intensely boring, and loudly expound upon the predictability of the plot and the idiocy of the characters. Not a positive experience.

Sherlock was talking to Andy, the man that had left a note for Soo Lin at her flat. Andy was worried about her, upset that she’d simply abandoned her work. Her teapots had been so important, she’d never just leave them. John was only peripherally listening, the majority of his concentration diverted to figuring out what one would do with Sherlock. Where would they go, a murder scene? That was hardly appropriate. Dinner at the Chinese place had been pretty good. Was that really almost three months ago? Maybe dinner would be a good idea, somewhere special.

John popped out his phone and pulled up Mike’s number. He knew Sherlock, and the situation to a degree. Maybe he’d know. But how the hell would he even phrase this? ‘Hi, Mike, Sherlock and I have exchanged names, but not really, and I’d like to take him on a date, what do you suggest?’ Yeah, right. Think it through this time, he chided himself.

Sherlock and Andy were moving off toward a staff-only area of the museum, and John followed quick on their heels. He’d shoved his phone back in his pocket, not sure now of his next course of action. For himself, things couldn’t sit as they were. It was ridiculous and sappy, but he really did want to hear Sherlock say ‘My Name is John.’ And he genuinely wanted to respond in kind. There had never been a doubt that Sherlock was his soulmate, but John had wondered if Sherlock wanted to care about that. Even after he’d come to terms with his own reservations, he’d held back. It had to be right, and he’d had to be sure that he wouldn’t be crushed beneath the heel of indifference. Self-preservation and all that. But now, now it was clear. Blissfully clear, and his way forward led through some kind of wonderfully awkward conversation where John would have to practically drag the words out of the detective because he wouldn’t see the point of saying it aloud when they both understood it tacitly.

John pulled out of his contemplation as Andy began opening the stacks to show them what Soo Lin had been working on. Sherlock poked his head into the stacks briefly, but his attention was caught by something else entirely.

At the end of the stacks there was a rather large statue, and across its front were the symbols of the cipher. The ‘1’ painted across her eyes, the ‘15’ across her chest. Soo Lin had been threatened, too.

 

*****

 

The cipher was backwards. Backwards. What did that mean? Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he and John left the museum. Was it simply more convenient to paint it that way on the statue, but if that were so then the statue would have a significance to the cipher. But taken in context with the other two ciphers, the surface upon which it is painted has little to do with the meaning behind the numbers, so that was impossible. It must be a different sort of threat, but what kind?

“We need to find Soo Lin.” Sherlock said, turning to John. If this wasn’t the same kind of threat, Soo Lin would know what it meant.

“If she’s still alive,” John replied.

Sherlock nodded and stalked down the street. Soo Lin was their link. If they could get to her before she died…

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock perked up when he heard the voice. He must have found something. And the timing couldn’t have been better.

“Oh, look who it is.” John said. Sherlock didn’t miss the bite in the words and winced inwardly.

“Found something you’ll like,” Raz said, studiously ignoring John.

“Excellent,” Sherlock replied, glancing sidelong at John before following the graffiti artist.

“You know,” Sherlock heard John say as they crossed the river, “Tuesday morning. All you gotta do is show up and say the bag was yours.”

The detective rolled his eyes.

“Forget about your court date.”

“‘Scuse me, not something I’m likely to be forgetting.”

Sherlock leaned in to John and murmured into his ear, “It’s taken care of. Mycroft owes me a favor.”

John would have stopped walking had Sherlock not steered him ahead with a hand on his shoulder.

“Taken care of?” John asked when he’d digested what Sherlock had said.

“It’s amazing how easily paperwork goes missing, computer glitches lose names, you know.” Sherlock smirked. He hadn’t actually blackmailed Mycroft into making it happen, not yet, but after having ‘entertained’ one of his marks, it wouldn’t take much to do so. And the look of astonishment and pleasure on John’s face was more than worth the irritation of voluntarily contacting his brother.

 

*****

 

Sherlock stalked down a side street papered with advertisements. Concerts, plays, a circus. Sherlock paused at this. The poster was advertising a Chinese circus in London for only one day, the following evening in fact. Mere coincidence that there were all these Chinese threads seeming to come together? Sherlock tore off the ticketing information and tucked it into his pocket. The universe was rarely so lazy.

He’d returned to the railway lines, examining freight cars for signs of the distinctive yellow paint, when John came running.

“Answer your phone! I’ve been calling!”

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, noted that he’d set it on silent when they’d been in the museum and had not flipped it back. There were three missed calls from John.

“I’ve found it.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. More characters, more numbers, more code. Now he could crack it.

“Show me.”

The pair of them returned to the wall where John had seen the telltale graffiti. John stopped along the tracks behind a maintenance shed and scanned the brick with a flashlight. There was nothing there.

“It’s been painted over!” John shouted. “I don’t understand. It-it was here…”

Sherlock began to shine his own light around the area, looking for anything that would indicate that the wall had been painted over. He found some very familiar looking footprints in the gravel by the wall. Interesting. The same size and general shape as those he’d seen at Soo Lin Yao’s flat. It was all beginning to make a great deal of sense.

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it,” Sherlock said. His head shot up at a sudden epiphany. What a glorious preliminary experiment. Sherlock wasn’t sure what a soulbond would feel like, but John’s sudden appearance in his mind palace unaccompanied made him think that it had already begun. Perhaps…

Sherlock peeled off his gloves and took John’s head between his hands, staring intently into John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked, his eyes wide.

“Shh. John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes, that might help.”

“What? Why?” John’s bewilderment was evident in his voice, but he didn’t back away, and his eyes closed. Sherlock’s eyes also slid closed. There had to be a connection somewhere in his mind. There had to be. The detective began sprinting through the corridors of his mind palace, searching.

Sherlock lowered his forehead until it rested against John’s. The detective’s breath fluttered along John’s lips and the shorter man shivered.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low. John’s hands had come to rest on Sherlock’s hips without voluntary input.

“I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”

Sherlock’s words broke the spell that had seemingly been cast. John’s eyes popped open and he gave the detective an incredulous look.

“Seriously?” John nearly pulled Sherlock’s hands off his face. Nearly. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

John’s tone made Sherlock pause and open his eyes. “The average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate. How much do you remember?”

Sherlock’s forehead was still resting against the doctor’s, and John’s hands were still resting on his hips. It would be so easy, John thought. So insanely easy. And before he could think better of it, John lifted his chin just enough so that his lips touched Sherlock’s. Just for a moment. A brief, eternal, glorious moment.

“Don’t worry, I took a photo,” John said, a ridiculous smile threatening to ruin his otherwise studiously serious expression.

Sherlock’s brain had stopped. It had simply ceased functioning as John’s lips had met his. He stood, still clasping the doctor’s head between his hands, staring stupidly at him as John explained about…what was he talking about? What were they even doing?

He came back to himself as John pulled away, removing his warmth from Sherlock’s hands.

“Are you alright?” John asked, his tone worried.

“What? Yes, fine. Um.” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to catch back up with the larger world.

“Here it is,” John said, handing Sherlock his phone.

 

*****

 

Sherlock might have noticed when John laced his fingers through the detective’s as they walked back along the track to the road to catch a taxi back to Baker Street. He might have noticed the sappy grin on the doctor’s face and his lips almost forming a whistle before he thought better of it and licked them instead. Sherlock might have noticed those things, and somewhere in his brain they’d been cataloged and tucked away in John’s room. But Sherlock was still attempting to process his lips being pressed against John’s in an entirely not-unpleasant way.

The kiss had been a chaste one, to be sure, nothing more than simple pressure. But it had increased Sherlock’s heart rate. He could feel the flush on his cheeks as John had pulled away. And perhaps most unsettling was the fact that Sherlock had immediately wanted to do it again, despite its irrelevance and inefficiency in the current situation. And then there were the tendrils of heat that had uncurled, just for the briefest of moments, in his abdomen. The ones he’d been increasingly unable to cut off when he’d catch John freshly showered and headed up to his room in his dressing gown, or on those rare but lovely occasions when he’d neglected to button his shirt. The calm he’d felt in his mind just a few hours ago gave way to a new kind of chaos, but this didn’t spill furniture and loose mortar on the floor, it just made everything foggy, hazy, indeterminate. Nearly impossible to navigate in a precise, efficient manner.

It had also dimmed the lights in every room save John’s, and that was not simply not acceptable. Sherlock flung open John’s door, ready to give the good doctor a mental dressing down, but before he could say a word, John pulled him inside and shut the door behind him.

There was no fog inside John’s room, everything here was crystal clear. The files that were arranged on the shelves, the small bits of furniture; desk, bed, kettle. Everything was in perfect focus here. Wordlessly, John pulled Sherlock along through his room, which seemed to have grown exponentially since the last time Sherlock had wandered here, to the very back. There, in the corner between two bookcases, was a tiny door no bigger than one would find in a dolls’ house. John pointed and smiled up at Sherlock. The detective expected John to speak up, tell him what the door was and why it was so small. But he merely squeezed Sherlock’s hand. Perhaps he didn’t know either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have no idea how much I adore your comments, kudos, and bookmarks. THANK YOU!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John-thoughts. And a smidgeon of plot. And a couple of Sherlock-thoughts, too.

Nothing was ever going to happen the way John Watson had planned. The doctor sighed to himself and threaded his fingers between Sherlock’s as they returned to the road. Unexpected was a mild way to describe it; coming out of nowhere and hitting him over the head with a bat was more what it felt like. Not that he wanted to give up the concussion. The swirl of thoughts that never settled, constantly feeling off-balance, but finding his center just in time. The shackles of an existence that threatened to suffocate him in monotony had melted away the moment he’d walked into that lab at Bart’s just three months ago.

He glanced down at their intertwined hands, then up at Sherlock’s face. The detective seemed to be miles away, content to have John lead them to the road and hail a taxi. John had surprised Sherlock, and the detective was merely processing. He licked his lips, imagining that he could taste Sherlock there. He could almost feel the pressure of the detective’s lips against his own, and wanted to kiss the man again, more thoroughly.

_Disgusting. That’s not the boy I raised._

John heard his mother’s voice in the back of his mind. Even in death the woman wouldn’t let him be. He’d invaded Afghanistan to drown her memory, and he’d thought it had finally faded as he patched up the wounded.

_You do this just to spite me, don’t you? How can you choose to live this way?_

“Shut up,” John mumbled to himself, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. He recognized his initial reticence as having stemmed from her, and to a degree his father too, but the therapy and prayer sessions for Harry had been almost entirely his mother’s idea. It was his mother for whom he had believed Sherlock to be a girl’s name. He was thirty-eight goddamn years old, it was time to let her, and her toxic rhetoric, go. For good. If her heaven existed, there was nothing in it that could make him feel as he did with Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it was just biology, chemicals released into his blood, stimulus-response, but it didn’t change the truth of it: John was falling, hard.

He slid into the taxi after Sherlock and gave the cabbie the address. Sherlock still seemed to be miles away, tucked up in his brain somewhere John couldn’t follow. As the cab pulled into traffic, the exhaustion hit. John failed to stifle a jaw-cracking yawn. He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the muzziness. It wasn’t the time, it was only just past seven, it was the intensity. Running through London, in the dark, looking for graffiti took a lot out of a man.

Sherlock sank into the seat and seemed to wake up from wherever he had been, deep inside his mind, and studied John with curious eyes. John withstood the gaze, feeling a bit like he was one of Sherlock’s experiments that hadn’t produced the expected results. But it wasn’t that, really, because it wasn’t a disappointed, disapproving kind of look.

“You’re a very surprising man, John Watson,” Sherlock said.

John bit down on a laugh. “I’m surprising? Me?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, a bit of petulance on the edge of the word.

“I’m just an ex-Army doctor. How am I surprising?” John wasn’t special, not in the way Sherlock was. Anybody could do what he’d done if they wanted. Sherlock was silent for several moments, and John had nearly resigned himself to never receiving an answer.

“You are surprising in the way music suddenly crescendos when you least expect it,” Sherlock said. “In that way exactly. I can follow the melody, but the dynamics… you play forte when most would simply set down their instruments.”

John grinned lopsidedly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one,” Sherlock said. “Few people surprise me.”

John shuffled a bit closer to the detective and leaned against him, his head resting against Sherlock’s shoulder. His entire body felt a bit floaty at Sherlock’s words. He didn’t just say things to people, he wasn’t just nice because that’s what was expected. In fact, he regularly went out of his way to be rude. John’s mouth gaped in another yawn.

“I need sleep,” John said. “Gonna catch a few winks on the way home.”

Sherlock’s arm encircled John’s shoulders carefully, his hand resting along the doctor’s elbow. Before John dozed off, he felt a slight pressure on his elbow, pulling him closer. He sighed contentedly and allowed sleep to descend.

Sherlock wondered at how easily John slotted into the space beside him that had never felt empty before. As John’s breathing slowed, he brought a single finger to his own lips, recalling in perfect detail how John’s own slightly chapped ones had been pressed there. The smoldering tendrils of fire in his chest that he’d banked earlier in the evening began to burn again. Usually he disregarded his transport’s reaction to most things. Basic functions, eating, sleeping, pissing, were dealt with only when necessary and he’d more or less abandoned the rest of it to sort itself out. Sherlock was certain that this bit of biology would as well.

 

*****

 

The cab ride was far too short. John felt even more sleepy when Sherlock woke him as they arrived in Baker Street. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock talking about the cipher they’d found, mumbling things that he thought might be appropriate. He sat in the upright chair at the table because if he landed in his armchair, he’d be asleep in three seconds, and if he fell asleep Sherlock would undoubtedly try to do something ridiculous all by himself and John wasn’t about to let that happen. They did ridiculous things together. That was how it went.

“We can’t crack this without Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock said, and John’s coat was thrust unceremoniously into his hands.

“Oh, good,” John said. Sherlock’s eyeroll was completely unnecessary.

 

*****

 

John didn’t remember the cab ride to the museum. He’d fallen asleep again, Sherlock pulling him out of the taxi rather unceremoniously when they’d arrived. The good news was that he’d caught a bit of a second wind and he felt much more awake than he had at the flat. Sherlock was talking to Andy again, who still had no bloody idea where Soo Lin was. Surprise.

But then there were the pots. The teapots. The ancient Chinese teapots.

“Before, only one of these pots was shining. Now there are two,” Sherlock murmured. John approached to get a better look at what Sherlock saw, and indeed, two of the tiny clay teapots had a patina on them that was different from the others. Sherlock stood abruptly and sucked in a breath.

“We’ll need to stay after hours today,” he said. “Do we need to clear that with your supervisor, or do you know a place where…” Sherlock trailed off, lifting his eyebrows suggestively.

“Well, the staff loo maybe. The archives? Um, there’s places,” Andy looked distinctly uncomfortable that he knew about them, “that are really out of the way. Do you really think she’s…”

Sherlock raised a hand, cutting off Andy’s thought.

“Yes,” he said under his breath. “But there’s a saying about walls and ears, and this place has both in spades.”

Andy had the good sense to nod and keep his mouth shut, which John was grateful for. Sherlock had been surprisingly tolerant of this young man, but John didn’t want him to press his luck.

 

*****

 

John wasn’t sure how long the pair of them sat in the dark behind one of the towering archive walls, but it was definitely more than two hours. All of which was spent in silence, broken only by a deep breath or the careful stretching of cramped limbs. He was certain that this kind of detective work was infinitely worse than the kind that had them running through the streets. At least then he felt as though he was doing something worthwhile. The waiting around had always bothered him, but he’d gotten used to it. Hurry up and wait should be the unofficial motto of the Army. Long weeks with nothing to do but smack golf balls into the old Russian minefields, and then all of a sudden everything was furious activity for two days, then nothing again. But always on edge, waiting, because those days of furious activity were impossible to predict. So yes, John was good at waiting, anticipating, without it getting the better of him. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

Sherlock nodded, finally, and stood a bit stiffly. It was time to go find Soo Lin, if she was in fact still in the museum. Sherlock seemed to think that the teapots were incapable of lying in that regard, so the pair of them stalked through the museum in the dark. It was all very ‘Mission: Impossible’ type stuff. John had to stop himself humming the theme song and darting out from behind corners. That would be undignified. Fun, but undignified, and alert Soo Lin to their presence before they had time to actually find her.

They were in the restoration area of the museum, thanks to the key card Sherlock had swiped off of Andy. Apparently Lestrade isn’t the only one he pickpockets, John thought. At the end of a very long, very dark hallway a light filtered through the frosted glass of a door.

“Ah ha,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll only be a moment, John. If I don’t tell you to come in after a minute, feel free to barge in and shoot someone.”

John saw the wicked smirk on the detective’s face before he flew down the hall on silent feet and opened the door without making a sound. John raced after him.

“Don’t you dare. Both of us or not at all, I’m not getting left behind again,” John hissed when he caught up.

Sherlock spared a look at the doctor, nodded once firmly, and silently opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kudos and comments and bookmarks never cease to amaze me. I'm so grateful for every single one! +hugs+


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of plot with this one... going way off into AU territory now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after some deliberation, I decided to change the end of the previous chapter. If you've read it after Sept. 18, you can skip the next bit and jump straight into this chapter. If you haven't, here's what was changed:
> 
> “Ah ha,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ll only be a moment, John. If I don’t tell you to come in after a minute, feel free to barge in and shoot someone.”  
> John saw the wicked smirk on the detective’s face before he flew down the hall on silent feet and opened the door without making a sound. John raced after him.  
> “Don’t you dare. Both of us or not at all, I’m not getting left behind again,” John hissed when he caught up.  
> Sherlock spared a look at the doctor, nodded once firmly, and silently opened the door.
> 
> Now, on with the new stuff...

Soo Lin Yao was a quiet woman in voice and manner. She seemed incapable of doing the things she claimed to have done, but the threat that had been left for her in the archives was proof enough, let alone the tattoo on the sole of her foot.

“I had hoped that after five years they had forgotten about me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours - they are never very far away.” Soo Lin said, her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped.

“No. No we are never far away.”

This new voice came from behind John and Sherlock, and both of them spun around. The only light in the room was the small task lamp attached to Soo Lin’s desk. The speaker approached the light slowly, her footsteps echoing in the instant silence her words had created.

As her features resolved out of the gloom, Sherlock smiled. The curve of her nose was unmistakable.

“I thought the coincidence uncanny,” Sherlock said, bowing slightly in her direction. “Obviously it wasn’t a coincidence at all. How’s Mycroft keeping?”

John’s brain stripped a couple gears when he heard Mycroft’s name.

“Sherlock, who is she?” John asked, eyes darting between the two.

“I am called DongFeng,” she said, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’m very disappointed that you didn’t buy the lucky cat. Would have saved you some time.”

“No. No way. You’re the lady from the shop? Jesus.” John raked his hands through his hair. He’d felt so clever finding the cipher components. Not to mention that her accent was completely gone. He should have noticed it was too cliche to be real. What else had he missed?

“How long have you been watching us?” Sherlock asked good naturedly. Of course, John thought, having a brother like Mycroft, one would get accustomed to being under surveillance.

“I was called in shortly after that cabbie met an untimely demise,” she glanced at John, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, nodding. “You’re quite convincing. Lucky for you your granddaughter actually does work at that restaurant.”

DongFeng laughed. It was a ringing, mirthful laugh with no malice in it, but it was short lived. “Decades of practice, young man. Now, I believe we have a lady here that could use a quick, quiet exit from the premises. Soo Lin, if you would follow me.”

“Wait, wait. I need her to tell me the cipher code. Soo Lin, can you decipher these?” Sherlock thrust the photograph of the cipher in front of Soo Lin, who took it automatically.

“All the smugglers know this. It’s based upon a book,”

And before she could say more, blood bloomed across her chest. Sherlock sucked in a breath, spun, and sprinted toward the door of the preparation room, disappearing into the shadows until all that could be heard was the sharp clip of his shoes on the floor.

John pulled Soo Lin off her stool, lay her on the floor and ripped her shirt apart looking for the wound. He was torn between chasing after Sherlock, making sure he didn’t do anything completely mental, and helping this poor girl who was only trying to make a better life for herself than muling drugs across the border. She shouldn’t die for that.

The bits of her shirt John had torn away he now bunched up and pressed against the wound. With his other hand he dug into his pocket for his mobile and tossed it to DongFeng.

“Call whoever will get here the fastest,” he said. He didn’t care if it was Mycroft’s people or an ambulance. It didn’t matter. Soo Lin needed more than a wadded up shirt pressed against her chest, and John didn’t have the supplies with to help.

DongFeng pressed the phone to her ear and whispered into it. When she slipped it back into John’s coat pocket she nodded and mouthed, ‘Mycroft.’ John wasn’t surprised.

“Stay with me, Soo Lin,” John said. The fabric was already soaked with blood, and Soo Lin’s pulse was becoming thready and shallow. If they didn’t get her help, and blood, it would be too late. A gunshot erupted through the air, but John didn’t look up. More would follow. There would be explosions and shouting and dozens of feet pounding past him, but he had to ignore it, had to try with the little he had to save this girl’s life.

“Plastic wrap,” John requested, holding out the hand that had the least amount of blood on it.

“What?”

“Plastic. Wrap. Clingfilm. Saran wrap?”

Feet moved, John was alone with Soo Lin. It was only a moment, a fraction of a second, between when the footsteps moved away and the cold metal pressed against the base of his neck.

“Stand.” The voice was a whisper, and John couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Didn’t matter since they had a gun pressed between his fifth and sixth cervical vertebrae. Kind of trumped anything John could conceivably accomplish. He raised his blood-soaked hands and rose. As he did, he could see the blood begin to pour out of Soo Lin again, and he knew whatever happened it would come too late to save her life.

“Zhi Zhu?” John said. It came out as more of a question than he was hoping for.

“Very good, little fly.”

“What do you want?”

“You have the cipher. You know what we want.”

“I don’t know what it says. I can’t read it!” John’s hands balled into fists. He couldn’t save Soo Lin, he couldn’t read the code. He felt fucking useless and there was nothing worse than that.

“I don’t like it when people lie to me. Twenty-four hours.”

The pressure against his neck vanished and John dropped immediately to Soo Lin. She was still there, but barely. John could do little but pray.

“Here, I found this,” DongFeng knelt beside John and held out a roll of clear plastic sheeting. “Will it work?”

“Won’t hurt,” John replied. “Here, help me wrap her.”

 

*****

 

Sherlock hadn’t heard the shot, but it was obvious where it had originated from, and that was the direction in which he ran, out the open door of the preparation room. He looked left, then right, listening, concentrating. He could feel the adrenaline start pouring into his bloodstream. This was always the part he tried to savor. It never lasted long enough.

_There._ The rustle of fabric, almost inaudible, to the left. John was busy saving Soo Lin’s life, Sherlock would apprehend the killer. Ah, he liked the sound of that. He smiled as he ran full pelt down the hall.

He came to the T-junction at the end of the hall and paused again, listening. He held his breath and closed his eyes, willing his ears to listen more intently. And it came again, the faint sound of movement, to his right this time. He was off, chasing less than a shadow but certain it would materialize. He reached a press-bar door at the end of the hall. The killer could not have fled through it, anyone who’d ever opened one of these doors knew that it was impossible to do so silently. There were no other junctures in this hall. A room, he’d ducked into a room. Of course. Which meant that the killer was now behind him and could be anywhere, perhaps heading back to John and Soo Lin… an echoing crack split the air. It didn't take a genius to figure out it was an unsilenced gunshot, from back the way he'd come.

Sherlock stood up straight, a bolt of fear coursing down his spine, the feel of something pressing against his neck, but when he placed his hand on the spot, there was nothing there.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. Stupid, he’d been so stupid! Of course he was trying to lure Sherlock away from Soo Lin, so he could finish the job, maybe add a couple bodies to his count while he was at it. Sherlock backtracked to the preparation room, skidding to a halt just inside the door. He froze as he saw John kneeling by an obviously near-dead Soo Lin. He was murmuring to her, holding her hand. She was unconscious, she couldn’t hear what he was saying. Sherlock had seen many mangled corpses, most covered in more gore than Soo Lin, but the sight of John holding her hand, her chest barely moving as she breathed, sweat prickling on her forehead, watching the life ooze out of her and onto the floor stopped him cold. He only ever saw the aftermath of this, or like the cabbie it was someone Sherlock had been convinced should die anyway and it didn’t matter. But Soo Lin… It was different with her. Why was it different? She was young, but that wasn’t unusual in many investigations. Well, she would have been helpful, perhaps that was the difference? That he was losing someone who could have aided in the solving of this case, and now she never would. He wasn’t sure. That seemed most logical. He had just begun to gather himself when the first blue and red lights began flashing through the windows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late...sorry.... I will attempt to do better in the future.
> 
> Thanks to all who comment, leave kudos and bookmark this! It amazes and humbles me that so many people are enjoying this!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Books. Lots and lots of books. And a date. Is it a date? It might be a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe I have been remiss in not acknowledging DaringD and 1butterfly_grl1 in their unending support of this endeavor.  
> Without you, I would never have made it this far *hugs*
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who's left kudos, bookmarked this story, and commented, they are oases in the desert.

One does not go through war without losing patients. That doesn’t make it any easier, however. John had known Soo Lin Yao for perhaps a grand total of an hour, at most, and at least a quarter of that time she was unconscious. He felt her loss regardless. Some of the soldiers he’d treated in Afghanistan he’d never spoken to, but their lives had been written on their faces, in the photographs they carried, in the tattoos that marked their flesh. No, it was never easy to watch death creep into a person and rob them of their future.

John sat slumped in a waiting room chair at the hospital, his legs thrust out in front, arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock paced in front of him, all angles and fluid motion.

“She didn’t even tell us what book the code was from,” Sherlock muttered irritably.

“She didn’t have time,” John reminded him.

“Don’t people have last words? Don’t they mutter things as they’re dying? She could have at least made herself useful.”

“The woman is _dead_ , Sherlock. Dead. Have some respect.”

“And to top it all off, I didn’t even get to see this Zhi Zhu. Why did he threaten you?” Sherlock peered at John through slitted eyes.

“Who knows? Who cares? We’ve got twenty-four hours to get this book code cracked, and we’re no closer now than we were at the bank. Jesus.” John raked a hand through his hair, then shook himself. He was starting to sound like Sherlock, and he didn't need that. He needed sleep, good sleep. Sleep in a bed sleep.

“Books. Yes, books. The code is from a book! Thank you, John.”

The doctor was absolutely too tired to follow why exactly the detective was thanking him. Sherlock grabbed at his arm and pulled John down the hallway, through a claustrophobic A&E waiting room, and out into a night that was just nearly ready to become dawn.

 

*****

 

John found himself in a windowless room that held one large formica table and six office chairs and about seven hundred black crates. DongFeng was there, and he may have remembered seeing Mycroft for a few brief moments, but his sleep-deprived brain had missed all the details. Had he seen Dimmock for a moment, too? It was impossible to know.

The door to the room shut, and John turned to see Sherlock surveying the crates. There was a tingling at the place where his skull met his spine and he reached up absently to rub it.

“All the books Van Coon and Lukis owned,” Sherlock said. “Somewhere in here is the key to cracking the code. Come on, John. Choose a crate.”

“We can’t go through all these in time,” John protested. “It’s impossible!”

“Look for pairs of books first, obviously. The book had to be owned by both Lukis and Van Coon. A common book, one that anybody would own…”

“Best sellers? Or like, I dunno, ‘How to smuggle artifacts from China’?”

DongFeng’s low chuckle seemed to echo in the room. “I see why you like him,” she said. “Even now he makes jokes.”

“You don’t seem very worried,” John said. “Something you’re not telling us?”

“A great many things,” she replied. “None of which will be of assistance now. I do not know which book is the key.”

“Great. Blind leading the half-asleep blind. Right,” John heaved a sigh and opened the top crate and began unloading books. “I guess it’s time to make a list.”

At some point, a barcode scanner and a laptop appeared on the table, which made list-making infinitely easier. John scanned in the books while Sherlock and DongFeng tore through the matched pairs looking for words that would make sense. John couldn’t tell what time it was, there was no clock displayed on the computer, and no windows in the room, but he knew it had been hours since they’d begun this endeavor.

“Deadman,” Sherlock said suddenly. “This is the book.” He held up a copy of the London AZ. “The threat was death, which is why they ran. But Soo Lin’s was not a threat of death, was it? No, hers was…” Sherlock flipped through the book. John had stopped scanning and peered intently as he found the entry he was seeking. “Circus. Why would the word circus frighten her? Oh. Oh.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. “Now the other message. Where is the other message?” He dug through a pile of papers, coming up with the photograph John had taken what seemed like days ago, but was only, what, earlier that night? He definitely needed sleep. There was a feeling like gooseflesh beginning to creep up the back of John’s neck. It reached the base of his skull and made the tiny hairs there stand on end. He frowned, and reached up to scratch. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sherlock doing exactly the same thing as he bent over the atlas, scribbling down the translation.

“Nine Mill Jade Pin Dragon Den Black Tramway Under Circus,” Sherlock read aloud after he was finished. “That’s why they gave us twenty-four hours, not because they were being generous, but because they wanted it back, the jade pin. What jade pin? And…” Sherlock stood triumphantly, waving a bit of torn paper he’d rummaged out of his pocket. “They have to perform.”

The detective pulled out his phone and dialled.

“Yes. Hello. Two tickets, please. Yes. Excellent, thank you,” Sherlock turned to John and thrust the torn bit of paper under his nose. “John, how would you like to go to the circus?”

If the two men missed the knowing smile on DongFeng’s lips, well, one could hardly blame them.

 

*****

 

On the bright side, John had been able to steal about three hours of sleep after they’d returned to Baker Street. Of course now he had a small dilemma. How did one dress for a date that wasn’t really a date but was something more akin to walking into the lion’s den to prove a point? John had pleaded with Sherlock to let the authorities handle it from here, there was enough evidence and Dimmock was amenable, after all, to listening to Sherlock’s ideas. Please, will you let the police do their job?

No luck. He tried to remind himself that this was Sherlock, the man who flirted with death to prove he was clever. John didn’t need any more proof, thanks much, and as exciting as it was running through London chasing criminals, he couldn’t help but feel that this was a completely unnecessary risk. Which was why it was being taken. John sighed and stared at the two shirts he’d laid out on the bed. Did it matter what he wore, really? He picked up the blue striped button down, threw it on with his best trousers and a jacket, and called it good.

John trotted down the stairs, and got stuck somewhere in the doorway to the sitting room. Sherlock was standing in the window, framed in late afternoon sunlight. He was mostly shadow, but the highlights the sun found were incredible. Sherlock Holmes had created a living work of art. Light shone in the carefully arranged curls of his hair, caught the angles of his face so his cheekbones stood out in stark contrast to the hollows underneath. He had his hands in his pockets, pulling his suit jacket back and away, revealing not only the flat plane of his stomach, but the lush curve of his arse, which John suddenly wanted to squeeze in a very not-friendly way. The sight of him pooled in the depths of John’s gut, hot and solid and intense.

The detective turned, his lips quirked strangely into something that should have resembled a smile but didn’t quite. “Ah. Ready then?” he said, voice low and husky in a way John hadn’t heard before.

“Um. Well, yeah. I mean…” John stammered. “Shoes,” he finally said, and shrugged. John never felt himself to be particularly eloquent, but this was a new low.

“Yes, you’ll need those,” Sherlock replied, that same strange smile playing with his lips. John wasn’t sure what to make of it.

There was an insistent poking sensation where his head and neck joined, as though someone was trying to get his attention. But he and Sherlock were the only two in the flat. He turned around anyway, and of course no one was there. He rubbed at the spot, trying to erase the sensation. That was three or four times now that he’d had an odd feeling there, right where Zhi Zhu had pressed the gun. Leftover stress, maybe. Residual guilt, possibly. John shook his head and told himself to ignore it.

 

*****

 

Sherlock hadn’t thought much of asking John to attend the circus. It was part of a case, a necessary step in tracking down this spider and squishing it. John, however, was taking great pains with his choice of clothing. Sherlock wondered at that for a moment. The man wore awful jumpers almost daily and seemed unconcerned to the point of irrationality with fashion. But he had chosen this outfit with care. It was incredibly flattering, too, Sherlock thought as he appraised John out of the corner of his eye as he stood in the doorway of the sitting room. Trousers instead of his jeans, a jacket that looked like it had actually been altered for fit (almost certainly before the war, as he’d left it unbuttoned), and a blue and white striped button down shirt. Quite dapper for the ex-army doctor. A hint of pride played around the edges of Sherlock’s mind, that he should be in the company of such a fine specimen.

 _Someone was knocking on John’s door._ John _was knocking on his door, from the inside. Sherlock had reinforced a lock on that door last night when he’d needed to check the books and couldn’t have John distracting him as he delved into his mind-palace. Now, of course, John was becoming a bit restless. What harm was there in letting him out now, as long as he promised to return when necessary? Sherlock threw back the deadbolt and unlocked the door, and John Watson tumbled out, nearly knocking the detective over. Before Sherlock could say a word, John’s mouth had covered his own in a blistering kiss, and his hands had begun to roam down, grabbing a handful of his arse and squeezing. Sherlock pulled away, startled._

_“Sorry,” John said, taking a step backwards into the room. “It’s a very nice arse, and I wanted to see if it felt as nice as it looked.” He smiled up at Sherlock in mock embarrassment._

_“Does it?” Sherlock asked, his surprise giving way to outright curiosity. It had definitely not been unpleasant, what John had done._

_“Oh yeah,” John said. “I’ve got something I want to show you, though.”_

_John led Sherlock back to the back corner of his room again. The tiny door was not so tiny anymore. It had grown, and now would accommodate a medium sized cat._

_“Can I open it?” Sherlock asked._

_“Not yet,” John said. “Soon, though, I think.”_

“Ah. Ready then?” Sherlock asked. It felt as though the pressure of John’s hand was still on his backside, but that was impossible. The effects of anything encountered in the mind palace didn’t bleed out into reality, it’s what made the structure so infinitely useful.

“Um. Well, yeah. I mean…shoes.”

“Yes, you’ll need those,” Sherlock replied, pulling his Belstaff off the coat hook and swirling into it. He would need his armor tonight, he was going into battle.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nope, sorry, not a date...

This was the absolute craziest circus John had ever been to. No seats, no stage. Well, there was a stage, but it was pointedly being not-used for the performance. The space for that had been delineated by _candles_ of all things. Yes, alright, they weren’t really here for the show, were they, but still. If this was a circus, John was a hedgehog.

Sherlock didn’t walk through the space so much as he floated, hovering over John’s shoulder, glancing at the doctor out of the corner of his eye every few seconds. He needed to focus on the environment, know what to anticipate and what he didn’t need to worry about. He tore his eyes away from John for a detailed scan of the room, noting the lights in the exit signs were not lit. He blinked slowly, a habit he’d developed as a child to devote an image to memory. He filed it quickly, and maneuvered John to stand at a spot that afforded both an excellent view of the ‘stage’ and also easy access to an exit, should such be necessary. He had quite a few suspicions that it would.

“What the hell is this?” John whispered to Sherlock as they settled in.

“What kind of circus do you think smugglers would have, then?” the detective replied in a whisper, his lips so close to John’s ear that he could have kissed it. He wanted to, suddenly, press his lips around the outer shell and pull the earlobe into his mouth and catch it between his teeth. It was such a vivid mental image, and he could imagine John’s eyes sliding shut and his sigh.

He straightened quickly, returning his attention to the stage. John turned slightly to glance up at the detective, half an idea formed in his mind. A small electric pulse at the base of his skull made the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he rubbed at it. He would have to get that looked at. Bulged disc, maybe. He was old and battered enough for it.

Before John had time to finish his idea, drums began tatting from behind the curtain on the unused stage. A woman dressed in some kind of traditional costume began to introduce the opening act.

“Traditional Chinese escapology,” Sherlock murmured. John was intrigued. The costuming was certainly realistic enough, and the crossbow was decidedly real. The bolt sank into the wood of the restraint board with a sickening thunk. The woman pulled the bolt from the board easily, though, so it was a prop instead of actual weaponry. No flared edges to the tip. She primed the crossbow again, placing the bolt back in place.

“Hair trigger. Now she’ll pierce the bag there, and a weight will lower slowly to the trigger while…” a man in armor appeared onstage as Sherlock spoke, “the warrior attempts to escape his bonds.”

John stared. It all unfolded exactly as Sherlock had described. He knew it was all an act, a production, but as the weight crept closer to the trigger, he held his breath.

It was all over in an instant. Almost simultaneously, the bolt released from the crossbow and the warrior fell to the floor, free of his bonds. It surprised a chuckle out of John, who clapped, genuinely impressed with the performance. He turned to congratulate Sherlock on his choice of entertainment, but the detective was gone, vanished as John stood there like an idiot watching. Of course he would. John swore under his breath and began scanning the crowd as the next act came onstage. The human spider, the woman called him. John froze, staring. _Spider, Zhi Zhu, spider_. The words kept colliding in John’s brain. This was the acrobat, the killer, the climber. The one who’d threatened him at the museum just hours ago, forcing him to let Soo Lin’s life ebb away. He had to find Sherlock, _now_.

 

*****

 

John was engrossed in the act, watching intently as the weight lowered to the crossbow trigger. Sherlock slipped silently away, looking for something, anything to connect these performers to the graffiti messages, and hence the murders, that Dimmock would actually count as evidence. The gun would be nice, but Sherlock didn’t believe for a minute he’d be that lucky. He wove through the crowd, closing in on the curtained stage, then slipped behind it into a maze of costumes and props. The lighting was bad here, kept purposefully dark, Sherlock thought. Odd for a preparation space. Sherlock poked into a costume rack, sliding pieces of armor and clothing back and forth along the rail. Nothing useful there. He heard a thunk and then applause. The escapology act was over. He had little time to waste. He rummaged through a bag that was left half-open under a makeup table, and there. There it was, a can of bright yellow spray paint. Brand and propellant matching Raz’s description. Sherlock couldn’t believe his luck. He tucked the can into his coat pocket and stood, considering. He could leave now, bring the can to Dimmock and let Scotland Yard sort it out, or…

There was a roar from behind him, and a suit of armor came to life, a very real sword in its hands. Sherlock dodged to the side, spinning to face his enemy, grabbing the first thing that came to hand to defend himself. A makeup box. Sherlock put all his considerable strength behind the blow, which landed solidly on the side of his attacker’s head. Shame about the armor, but it couldn’t be helped. The attacker groaned, but was undeterred and advanced again, Sherlock all but dancing backwards towards a rack of costumes. The sword descended again, and Sherlock blocked it with the box, the sword embedding itself in the plastic. There was a short tussle, Sherlock and the attacker trying to separate their weapons, but it was impossible and Sherlock released his box as the attacker yanked on the sword once more, and he toppled backwards. Sherlock dove through the costume rack, placing it between himself and the man in armor as he righted himself and approached again.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this?” Sherlock asked. “Because it's becoming tedious.” He spun the costume rack into the attacker, who dodged it and tackled the detective into the curtain. “Okay,” he conceded, “Not so tedious now.” The attacker wrapped his hands around Sherlock’s neck and squeezed.

“This is what happens when I leave you alone for two minutes.”

John. Lovely, dependable, lethal John. There was the sickening smack of wood connecting with flesh and the man’s hands went slack around Sherlock’s neck.

“Alright?” the doctor asked as Sherlock sat up.

“I believe so,” Sherlock said, his voice croaky.

“So this isn’t the first time they’ve tried to strangle you on this case,” John mumbled to himself, then rolled his eyes. John knelt at Sherlock’s side, inspecting the finger marks around his throat. A minute later and it would have been all over. The man could have crushed his windpipe.

“No more running off on your own. Please.” I don’t want to lose you now, not after I’ve just found you, John thought, the words sticking in his throat.

Sherlock coughed roughly, then nodded. “I can see how that might be beneficial,” he said, and grinned.

“You bloody idiot,” John said, warmth infusing every word. He bundled the detective into his arms and hugged him.

John knew Sherlock’s personal scent. He lived with the man. But it had never enveloped him before as it did now. Sherlock’s arms rose to return the embrace, circling around John’s ribs tentatively, then all at once squeezing so tight John could hardly draw breath.

Sherlock felt the tidal wave of warmth wash over him as John pulled him close. This was…nice. Lovely in fact. There was a pulling ache in the center of his chest that seemed to point squarely at John. It begged to be closer, almost as though it wanted to crawl inside the doctor and live there. The detective settled on wrapping his own arms around the doctor. It wasn’t enough. Was this related to the urge to kiss his ear? That would require further experimentation. Sherlock shifted so that his lips were a hairs breadth away from the shell of John’s ear, and he felt the doctor’s heartbeat quicken slightly.

Hands grabbed Sherlock’s arms roughly, wrenching him away from John and drug him away. Sherlock's eyes looked everywhere at once, holding John's when they met. John had two men holding him, too, and Sherlock was frantic. He pulled left, trying to free his dominant hand, but to no avail. Legs, his legs were free. He swept his left leg at the thug on that side, catching him in the knee. He went down hard, howling. Sherlock's left hand was released as the thug clutched at the dislocated joint. He jabbed backward with his left elbow, but the man behind him holding his right arm skipped sideways, dodging the blow. Sherlock felt the shift in weight and pulled the man around, nearly dislocating his own shoulder in the process, but was able to use the momentum to land a decent punch to the man's side. Missed the kidney, though. Damn.

John was faring a bit better. He'd slammed his left foot down on one of the thug's, then shoved his shoulder into the man's face as he bent over involuntarily from pain. Blood ran from his broken nose, and John's left hand was free. He immediately pulled his fist up, connecting with the man's already broken nose. He bellowed and went down hard. John twisted hard toward the other man holding his arm behind his back. He grabbed a handful of hair before the man had a chance to get away and John pulled and kept pulling. He felt the blows land on his kidney, but he didn't let go, he simply pulled harder. The man with the bloody nose regained his feet, but instead of rushing back into the fight disappeared into another area of the stage.

There was a burst of applause from the other side of the curtain, and everyone froze. John had completely forgotten about the performance. In those two seconds, the balance of power shifted. John took the opportunity to shift his weight slightly. As the drums began a frenzied rhythm introducing the next act, John jumped, shoving himself up and back, throwing the man behind him off balance. They fell backwards, John landing squarely on the other man's chest. He landed on his arm badly; but he had managed to knock the other man's head against the floor of the stage, stunning him enough to loosen his grip. John rolled away, gaining his feet and rushing Sherlock's captor.

Sherlock's height had been working against him. It was impossible for the detective to balance his weight in the right way to counterbalance the shorter man holding on to him without seriously injuring himself. John barreled like a freight train right at the thug, grabbing his hand and twisting it  _just so_ until the joint popped. John then pushed the other man down and sat on his chest, his hands going around the man's throat.

"Don't you dare," John hissed. "Don't you fucking dare, you fucking cheap-ass rent-a-thug." John was livid. His thumbs pressed in, harder, and the man's eyelids began to flutter, his breath shallow.

"John? It's time to go," Sherlock said, but John didn't move. "Come on, John!" Sherlock urged, holding his hand out to the doctor.

"You tell your boss that nobody fucks with Sherlock Holmes, got it?" John growled at the man, then slammed his head into the floor and stood. He thought about spitting on the man, but decided that was a level of gross he wasn't really comfortable with and settled for kicking him in the side. John grabbed Sherlock's outstretched hand and the two made a hasty exit back into the audience, then out through one of the unlit exits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos and bookmarks, oh my! They are as air. 
> 
> No, but seriously, I honestly squee when I see new ones. In public. People stare.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not-date goes even more badly than expected... for the most part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took so long, but the chapter itself is a bit longer than I usually write and October is a very busy month for me. Everyone irl knows Halloween is my favorite holiday, so guess who gets to plan all the events and make treats and sew costumes? Yeah. So, apologies.

John wanted to go home. He’d just assaulted three men after having three hours of sleep, and he was wearing his best jacket. He was coming off the adrenaline and could feel the shaking setting in. But Sherlock was not heading toward the street, he was pulling John further down the alley toward a metal service door.

“Where are we going?” John said.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He placed a finger to his lips and shook his head. The alley was completely empty, who was going to hear them? Sherlock pulled on the handle of the service door, which came open easily. Unlocked. He gave John a knowing smile, pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and eased the door shut behind them. The gloom in the small vestibule was complete, cut only by the slender beam of the flashlight. Sherlock leaned over to speak into John’s ear again.

“We don’t have much time. The performance is almost over. They invited us into the Dragon Den, I believe we should keep our appointment.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re insane. Can’t we just call the police? I mean, I like beating up the bad guys as much as the next bloke, but walking straight into their lair?” John whispered back.

“And have them botch it all by coming in with helicopters and riot gear? Really, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, then grinned. “Dimmock knows we’re here. He’s been told to raid the circus after the performance.”

“We’re not at the performance,” John helpfully reminded the detective.

“Exactly.”

John was lost. It must have shown on his face, because Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.

“Do all smuggling rings deal in nine million pound jade pins?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been involved with one,” John hissed back.

“It’s a very rare item to be worth so much. And its gone missing. People have died because this pin is missing, and someone thinks I have it. Why?”

“How should I know?”

“Oh, use your brain, I know you have one somewhere.”

“Because you’ve been poking your nose in their business, trying to decode their messages?” John guessed.

“No, because they were told I did. And there’s only one person I can think of who could send Chinese smugglers to kill me.”

“No. Nope, we are not going to crash another party where people are trying and kill you. Because this time they’ll be prepared, and we’ll be dead,” John said, struggling to keep his voice at a whisper. He wanted to throw his hands up in disgust, but realized halfway through the gesture that he would have hit Sherlock.

Sherlock held up a hand, scanning the vestibule with his flashlight.

“One more time,” he breathed. “Come _with_ me.”

And John couldn’t refuse. Not when he’d been invited, requested, needed. Not when he could feel the shape of his pistol pressing into the small of his back because yes, he’d brought his pistol, and yes if he hadn’t been able to beat that guy in Chinese armor senseless he would have used it, and if he didn’t go, he was fairly certain Sherlock would anyway, and whoever was down there was definitely better prepared to fight them than the hired muscle backstage, and if John was honest with himself he might actually be looking forward to slugging a couple more smugglers.

John nodded once, decisively, and Sherlock led the way down a flight of concrete steps that led away into the dark.

 

*****

 

The pair descended at least four flights of stairs. John had never considered himself to be claustrophobic, but couldn’t quite get over the idea that there were four stories of earth over his head that could come crashing down on top of him. He told himself he was being silly, that he’d spent the better part of last night in an underground room in one of Mycroft’s buildings, but somehow this seemed more oppressive. Perhaps it was the rough cement stairs or the ominous dripping that seemed to come from nowhere and fall into invisible puddles. Or maybe it was just the dark. Either way, John was fairly certain he wouldn’t be going spelunking any time soon.

They reached the terminus of the stairway: another metal service door. Sherlock said nothing, merely scanned John with his flashlight briefly before pulling the door open on rusty hinges. So much for being silent. John followed the detective into a cavernous room. It seemed to be emitting its own light, but it was merely an illusion created by the fire some of the homeless had started in a bin off in the distance. After the concentrated beam of the flashlight, it seemed to suffuse the entire space with a warm glow, but the shadows were deep and impenetrable.

John pushed the door shut behind him, scanning the nearly-empty tunnel. He thought about pulling his pistol preemptively, but thought it might be better if he kept that a surprise. He was just grateful it was still snugged into the waistband of his trousers.

Sherlock moved away from the wall slowly, sliding his foot along the floor for a moment before taking a step. It was the best way to keep from sliding on unfamiliar ground. John was right behind, bristling with tactical attention, leaving Sherlock free to deduce the tunnel. Seemed non-descript, but so much so that it was purposeful. Meant to be boring and predictable, which in turn meant that there was something here that was decidedly unpredictable and they were counting on perception to make it invisible. What was it? Where was it? Well, the where was fairly obvious, in this tunnel, but where in the tunnel?

Sherlock loathed to give up the wall against their backs, but they couldn’t see into the shadows on the other side of the tunnel without doing so. He refocused on John for a moment, meeting the doctor’s eyes, soldier’s eyes now, gesturing his intent. John nodded, scanning the space behind them as they moved across the open expanse of tunnel. They found a couple wood pallets covered with blankets and several metal barrels; a makeshift bedroom at a guess. Sherlock flung the blankets away, but there was nothing underneath.

He inspected the space, flicking the flashlight beam over the space. Sherlock knew he was missing something. He’d expected to be ambushed as they entered the tunnel or crossed the space, not allowed to poke their noses into props, which these most certainly were. The blankets were not nearly putrid enough to have been down here long, and the pallets were fresh. But it was set up like a long-time resident would do it. It had to be a setup. Which meant it was there on purpose. Set dressing? Perhaps, part of the ‘too ordinary to attract notice,’ scheme.

The barrel to Sherlock’s left seemed to explode with noise and bright flashes in the dark, and then there was the pain in his arm. He heard himself bite off a roar of pain, but his transport seemed far away suddenly. He was running through the main hall, toward the steps up to John’s room. He had to get there, to know, John would tell him, because John knew.

 

*****

 

John felt like a fool when the gunman popped up out of the barrel and began popping rounds off in their direction. John instantly shoved Sherlock forward, placing himself between the shooter and the detective, pulling his pistol and returning fire, forcing the shooter back into his barrel. At least for a few moments. The flashlight Sherlock had been using had skittered away behind another set of barrels, and it was too far away for John to reach without leaving Sherlock exposed. The beam was pointing uselessly into the wall. John spent one more bullet on the man in the barrel, trying to keep him down, before attempting to shove Sherlock to his feet and get him the fuck out of there. The detective was clutching at his left bicep, and John could see wet glisten on his fingers in the gloom. Goddammit, he knew this had been a bad idea.

The gunman in the barrel popped up again as their footsteps faded away, and John dropped to the floor as another volley of shots rang out. They had to find that door. Had to get out, up, help. But the metal door they’d come through seemed to be invisible now that they didn’t have the flashlight, and John wasn’t sure he’d remembered the direction precisely enough to hit it first try. And he didn’t.

Sherlock was putting up a pretty good effort, though. John could see the pain in his eyes when they caught the light of the fire… wait, was it brighter in here than it had been?

John risked a glance toward the fire pit he’d noticed when they’d first entered this tunnel, and it had been turned on its side, the refuse spilling onto the floor and spreading, seeping, the fire following the path greedily. Wherever that ended up was probably just as prepared as the shooter in the barrel and John didn’t want to be here when it got to wherever it was going. He turned back, squeezing off another round toward the gunman, hoping it was close enough to make him nervous. Or maybe he was supposed to flee when the barrel overturned. Didn’t matter, they were pretty much fucked unless they could find the damn door.

Strings of invectives flowed through John’s mind as he searched for the door. He was certain that a few of them actually escaped into the tunnel. The door was nowhere. The wall was simply concrete, without a door anywhere. Jesus Christ, why the hell had he let Sherlock talk him into this fucking ridiculous shit. They were gonna die, just because Sherlock needed to know first, needed to find out before anybody else, couldn’t let the Yard do their damn jobs.

“To the left,” Sherlock ground out as he followed John down the wall. “You overshot.”

“Couldn’t have said something five minutes ago?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, which wasn’t a good sign, and John managed to get under his good arm before he collapsed completely. Now he was half-carrying Sherlock, trying to find a door before God knew what happened with that fire that was seeping slowly closer to whatever was underneath a stack of boxes that suddenly appeared out of the gloom as the flames oozed close. He followed Sherlock’s instruction, though, and finally, blissfully, he felt metal under his fingers instead of concrete. There was the handle, and Please God, let it be unlocked, and it opened and John shoved Sherlock through the opening, jumping through after him and slamming it behind him before pulling Sherlock to his feet again for the climb back to the alley and help.

Two minutes after they’d tumbled through the doorway, there was a muffled kthmp and John knew what had been under those boxes. They’d survived again.

The stairwell now was completely dark, no natural light here at all. John thought for a moment before pulling his mobile out and turning the screen on. It wasn’t perfect, but it was more light than they’d had. He held the phone over Sherlock’s injured arm and nearly gasped. His sleeve was soaked with blood, more blood than it should have been. John held the phone between his teeth as he pulled Sherlock’s coat and jacket off to perform some kind of first aid. He’d never make it upstairs at this rate, and there was no service down here.

“Goddammit, don’t you fucking die on me you son of a bitch,” John muttered around the phone as he pulled fabric away from the wound, revealing a much larger hole than he’d been expecting. Some kind of specialized bullet, then, engineered to deliver maximum damage.

“Couldn’t be just a normal bullet hole, could it? Oh, no. Not when Sherlock Fucking Holmes gets shot. God damn it.”

“I…” Sherlock began, but stopped as John tore the sleeve from his shirt and tied it, tight, above the wound. Makeshift tourniquet? Must be. The detective attempted to stand, pushing up with his good arm.

“No, here, let me,” John said, stooping under Sherlock’s good arm and lifting him into position. “We’ve got some stairs to climb. Are you ready?”

“No,” Sherlock said, attempting a smile that turned out to be more of a grimace.

“Well, at least you’re honest. Up we go.”

Sherlock made it up exactly one flight before he lost his footing. He missed the stair and landed hard, slipping out of John’s grip.

“Come on. One down,” John said as he repositioned Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders and lifted him again. Sherlock groaned as he found his legs again and started forward. John could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead in the light of his mobile screen and it was beginning to worry him. The faster they could get to ground level the better he’d feel.

 

*****

 

When there was one flight left to go, John checked his mobile. Two bars, he had to try. He dialled Dimmock.

“Are you at the Chinese circus?”

“It’s bloody empty, please tell me I’ll have something to show for this besides a massive bill for overtime.”

“I… fuck it. Look, down the alley beside the theatre there’s a metal service door. Sherlock and I are one flight down and I can’t drag him up any more stairs, he’s almost unconscious as it is. Got shot. I’ll explain later, just… Just get somebody down here. And bring flashlights.”

“Shot? What? Yeah, yeah we’ll find you. Can you stay on the line?”

 

*****

 

Sherlock tried to pull his eyes open, but couldn’t quite, which was incredibly frustrating because he could swear he was lying in some kind of bed. The last thing he remembered was half-lying on the concrete stairs beneath the circus, trying to regain some strength to climb that last flight of steps. Had he? It was completely blank. He shifted under the blanket, sucking in a breath as he moved his injured arm. Right. He’d been shot.

“Sherlock?”

The detective’s eyes did open then. “Hello, John.”

Sherlock scanned him quickly. He’d been here for at least a day, perhaps two given the massive bags under his eyes and the stiffness he tried to hide as he sat in the chair he’d been sleeping in. He’d slept in that chair, in Sherlock’s room. The detective’s eyes widened a fraction at the realization. Someone had brought him clean clothes, though, because these weren’t nearly rumpled enough to have been lived in for more than a few hours.

John set down his book, not bothering to mark his place, and stretched out a hand to rest on Sherlock’s. His eyes were soft, relived, a smile threatening to burst forth.

“How… how long have I been asleep?”

John chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself. Only about twelve hours after you got out of surgery. Which was long enough, let me tell you!”

Sherlock tried to shrug, but winced as his injured arm moved again. “You… you stayed here, though. The whole time.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Not gonna leave my mate alone in a hospital. What kind of person does that?” John grinned, then, his eyes full of mischief. “Well, that’s what I told the nurses anyway. Wouldn’t let me stay otherwise. Hope that wa…” John’s voice died mid-sentence. Sherlock was staring at him with a bemused expression on his face. “Sherlock?”

“So you weren’t just indulging me?”

“I… what? What the actual fuck, Sherlock? That… No. Of course I was not indulging you.” There was a sudden electrical shock at the base of John’s skull. He reached up to rub at the spot again, but before he could, he heard Sherlock’s voice, as clear as day, echoing in the back of his mind.

“ _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Perhaps I was being ridiculous again. Sometimes I can’t tell when that happens. What do I say, though? I can’t just say that…_ ”

“ _Yeah, you can,_ ” John answered back, thinking the words deliberately.

“ _No, I really can’t. It’s sentimental rubbish!_ ”

“ _I…I like sentimental rubbish,_ ” John thought again, and this time he looked directly at Sherlock and said the words aloud as he thought them.

The surprise in Sherlock’s eyes was echoed in John’s as the two men stared at each other.

“I… This isn’t supposed to happen this way,” John said.

Sherlock shrank back into the bed, pulling his hand away from John’s.

“Yes, I deduced as much. You can go now.” Sherlock’s thoughts were racing. John wasn’t happy about it being abnormal, he was surprised, perhaps scared. Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for it either, but what had he expected walking through that door in John’s room in his mind palace? Certainly not to invade his mind, hear his thoughts, see surface memories, the ones that hadn’t been locked away in their own version of Sherlock’s dungeon.

“Go? Why?” John didn’t move.

“Because this isn’t supposed to happen, you said so yourself! I don’t know how the door was built, but you’re obviously not my John and I’d appreciate it if you left now.”

“What door? Okay, no. I’m going to ignore the parts of what you said that don’t make any sense right now. And most of what you just said makes no sense. I should have said this a long time ago, but I never seemed to get around to it. I was half-afraid yesterday that I never would.”

“John, I…”

“No,” John said, holding up his left index finger. “Let me finish. I’m going to say it right now, because it can’t just go on without being said.” John paused and took a steadying breath. “My Name is Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos/bookmarks are water in the desert of life.   
> Please do not leave your abused metaphors with me because I obviously cannot be trusted with them. Sorry.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conversation they should have had three months ago...

Sherlock studied John for several long moments.

_“Torso left open, arms unfolded; indicates trust. Expression unguarded, however there is a slight firmness to the lips that suggests discomfort but not enough to translate into the rest of his body; dismissable. Does he realize how attractive it is when he licks his lips like that?”_

“You’re, um, doing that thing,” John said, tapping a forefinger against his temple. His cheeks and the tops of his ears flushed pink.

“Thing? What thin…oh”

“Apologies. How mu-”

“All of it,” John interrupted. The side of his mouth quirked upward for a moment before he very deliberately ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Sherlock shivered, which sent shooting pains through his arm and he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut.

“Sorry,” John said, although his expression was not contrite at all. His face darkened after a moment, his eyebrows coming together in a thoughtful frown. “ _How is this even happening, though? Shouldn’t even be getting feedback yet, haven’t properly kissed him.”_

“Oh, that’s what you meant,” Sherlock said, and John started.

“It… Oh shit, this is going to take some getting used to. What I meant about what?”

“This… internal dialogue. That it shouldn’t be happening. I’ve read a bit about the particulars. Mates being able to identify intense emotion in the other without visual or olfactory cues.” Sherlock paused, attempted to shift to a more comfortable position in the hospital bed and bit off a groan as he inadvertently moved his arm. John moved to help, but Sherlock waved him off, settling back onto the pillow with a frustrated huff. John pulled the armchair closer, his knees shoved up uncomfortably against the bed.

“Yeah, but not… not this, whatever it is. I can hear your voice in the back of my head, like you’re speaking into an empty concert hall or something.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock replied. _“You’ve always had a room here, so perhaps it doesn’t surprise me. You’ve been speaking in my head for months.”_

“Months,” John mused aloud. “And I had a room?”

“Yes, in my mind palace. I… well. My Name is John, you see, but there are so many Johns in the world. I suspected. But when you said it wasn’t supposed to happen, I seem to have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

“Master of understatement, you are. You thought… I kissed you, you idiot! How much more evidence would you need?”

“I’m very good with dead people. Not so much with the living. You seem to confound deduction, John. I can only surmise it is because of the sentiment I have for you. It’s… well, to be blunt it’s disturbing.”

John sat back in his chair, studying the detective for a long moment.

“I should’ve told you so many times. It just never seemed like the right moment, you know? And something like that, I thought it should be just right. And I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Maybe you’d tell me that you had no need of a mate and that I could just go to hell for all you cared. Maybe you still might, someday. I’m not brilliant like you, Sherlock. I’m just… nobody.” John shrugged. “You’ll get bored.”

Sherlock frowned. “If I was to tire of your company, John, don’t you think it would have happened before now? I have had ample time to be so repellent that you would have no choice but to leave.” The corner of his mouth turned up mischievously, “Perhaps I’ve been trying already and you refused to be driven away.”

John chuckled. “Does that mean you’re going to get the milk sometimes now?”

Sherlock snorted in amusememt. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

John slid to the edge of his chair and leaned forward, finding Sherlock’s hand with his own. He saw in his mind’s eye a split-second image of the two of them kissing, properly kissing, and his eyes lit with intensity and purpose. He pushed himself out of the chair and leaned in to capture the detective’s lips with his own. It was gentle and chaste, but he could feel Sherlock leaning into the contact.

Suddenly John felt swamped by words, pouring, tumbling, all in Sherlock’s voice, through his brain. _Scratchy, he hasn’t shaved. Not unpleasant. What do I do with my nose? Oh, I see. He’s rather good at this. Am I any good at this? He’s not complaining, so it must be fine. Oh, his mouth is open, perhaps I should do that, too? Oooh._

The words stopped when John slipped his tongue experimentally into Sherlock’s mouth and were replaced with washes of color; red, gold and silver. He should pull away, now. They couldn’t really snog in the hospital, could they? But when he tried to pull away, Sherlock’s hand came up to the back of his head to hold him in place. The good doctor didn’t struggle against it.

Sherlock wasn’t certain when his brain had ceased function. It was some time between when John had begun kissing him and when he’d slid his tongue into his mouth. It should have been revolting, Sherlock was expecting it to be. But somehow it was completely the opposite. Having John’s tongue in his mouth was the most arousing thing that had ever happened to him. And he never wanted it to stop.

It had to, of course, because breathing eventually became pointedly not boring. John pulled slowly away and sat back in his chair, his hand still firmly clasped around Sherlock’s.

_“I love that flush of red on his cheeks. Gets that when he’s been running too. It’s fantastic.”_

The cheeks in question flushed a bit deeper, and John smiled. “We’re going to have to figure out how to limit this internal dialogue thing. Otherwise you’ll blush every time you walk away. Never could stop staring at your arse.”

Sherlock choked on his surprise for a moment. He began sorting through his collection of memories of John freshly showered and making tea in the kitchen in only his dressing gown with a towel draped across his shoulders. And a couple when he’d accidentally on purpose peered through the crack in the bathroom door when the doctor was shaving, with only a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Sherlock had been certain that John wouldn’t have wanted to know how the detective knew about those tattoos. Perhaps now he would find it…

John’s entire face went from pleasantly tanned to deliciously pink in about half a second.

“I think it would be entirely advisable to perfect a method of keeping some of our thoughts private,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, a devilish gleam in his eye.

 

*****

 

_For Christ’s sake, could she be any more inane? Why should I care what the weather is when I’m hardly in a position to be out in it? She’d be better off talking to her cats!_

John stifled a grin as he typed away on his computer at the surgery. Sherlock had been surprisingly well-behaved for the past forty-eight hours, but the lack of excitement was beginning to tell. The doctor had told John that Sherlock would be released the following afternoon. John had been obliged to actually show up at the surgery for a shift that day, and every time a nurse or orderly would appear in his room, a string of deductions wafted through John’s mind. It made for a very interesting day, and he found himself wondering if Sherlock could deduce his patients from afar via the… whatever it was they shared. John had taken to thinking of it as a ‘link,’ for that’s what it was called when mates could feel the emotions of the other, but it was so much more than that. It was more than a link, it was sort of like a hallway, really, and when Sherlock ‘opened the door,’ as he called it, they could shout down the hallway to each other. Sort of. That really didn’t work as an analogy either, because shouting implied conscious effort, and sometimes stray thoughts wound their way through the hallway as well. But it made more sense in his head than ‘link.’

 _What are her cats’ names?_ John ‘shouted’ back, nearly typing ‘cats’ into the diagnosis as he did.

_One of them is Oscar. Heard her muttering about him when she thought I was asleep earlier this morning. The other two remain nameless… What does it matter?_

_Well, it got you thinking. And if you’re thinking, you don’t have time to be a prat. Usually. Only a few more hours. Anything interesting in the paper today?_

Sherlock began a long litany of all the things that were absolutely positively uninteresting in the paper, and John was nearly laughing aloud when Sherlock listed off the grammatical errors committed in the name of brevity. His pet peeve was the removal of the Oxford comma in newsprint to save the space.

_Six of them, John! How much space do six commas save? Honestly._

_Right, sorry I asked. I almost hate to even suggest telly._

The groan was so loud, John winced. _Yeah, okay, I get it. I brought your computer, unless you’ve read the entire internet, as well?_

_All the interesting bits._

_Right._ John rolled his eyes. _So I suppose you know all about this link and what’s happened?_

_Well… actually, no. Not a bad idea._

_Right. Close the door and you can tell me all about it when I get there._

John could feel it when the hallway/link thing slid shut. It was the odd sensation of having a part of his mind closed off, as though there was an appendage he’d had suddenly and painlessly amputated. There was even an attendant tingle where it should have been, right at the base of his neck. He returned to typing, filling out dull forms and recording diagnoses for each of the six patients he’d seen that morning.

 

*****

 

Sherlock dutifully searched for references to the profound connection he and John seemed to share. There were references to something like this, but they were mostly new-age spiritualist nonsense, full of irritating ideas about fate and destiny. He stopped scanning after about half an hour, convinced that there were no scientifically documented instances of this type of connection occurring. Which made it significant. Perhaps it was due to his superior intelligence? But John was merely above average on a good day. Sherlock desperately wanted to poke around John’s room in his mind palace, but he hadn’t quite figured out how to shut the door at the back of his room yet, the one that had popped open after he’d woken up in the hospital the day before yesterday. It still wasn’t large enough for him to walk through comfortably, and Mind Palace John seemed intent on keeping him away until it was the size of a standard door. So Sherlock locked the door to John’s room to keep stray thoughts from slipping down the connection. It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course. John could unlock his own door, and things would start moving across before Sherlock could stop it, but it was better.

John, for his part, didn’t seem to be aware of the door or what lay beyond it. He’d been mystified by Sherlock’s use of the word ‘door,’ even though he knew about Sherlock’s mind palace theoretically. John did not live in his mind the way Sherlock did, he knew that, nobody did. But he’d thought, perhaps, that would change with the connection, that John would become aware of the possibilities.

He had to give it time. It had only existed for less than three days, and it had taken Sherlock himself longer than that to initially construct his mind palace. He was not a patient man, he knew that. Never had been. But he had to remind himself that even the great Sherlock Holmes had taken at least a week to create his mind palace. He could wait a week. Definitely. Probably. He would actually try.

John was going to want an explanation of the connection, though, and there was absolutely nothing online that seemed to be of any help, and he couldn’t go poking about in John’s room for clues without opening the connection again. John had asked him to close the door until he’d come to the hospital. Sherlock was not normally in the habit of respecting someone else’s requests. There was a very strong realization, however, that John would be quite cross if this particular line was breached. And while it was amusing to see John irritated about the disappearing milk, or the body parts in the refrigerator, it was another thing entirely when he was truly upset.

Sherlock stilled at this thought. Since when did another person’s reaction and emotion dictate his actions? He tried to think back over the past months, and it dawned on him suddenly, as something does when it’s been happening without conscious effort, that he’d been thinking about John’s reaction since he’d stood up to Sebastian at the bank.

The bank. Well, he’d convinced himself that there was a climber involved, John had seen an acrobat before walloping the Chinese warrior over the head with a prop, so that was settled. Perhaps they’d go back that afternoon to ‘finish up’ the case. Wouldn’t Sebastian be surprised?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Well, I can only imagine Sebastian's reaction to Sherlock not only having a name but finding his mate! Won't that be a shock!
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there with me, everybody. I know it's been a long time coming. (I could probably edit this down by a lot, but then I'd lose all your lovely comments, and that would be a tragedy!)
> 
> Speaking of comments (and kudos and bookmarks!), I love them. With a warm, fluffy, walking-on-sunshine kind of love.  
> (See? I told you to lock up your overused metaphors... I'm dangerous!)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming home from hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time coming, and I'm very sorry for that, but it's here. Isn't that what counts?

Sherlock was bored. And while that was not a new state of affairs for the detective, his intense boredom at being cooped up in this pastel green and white hospital room was really beginning to get to him. He scooched up on the bed again, glaring at specific items. Particularly the visitors’ chair that was currently empty. John was at surgery today. And he’d asked, rather nicely, for Sherlock to ‘please stay out of my head while I’m at work. It’s distracting.’

Sherlock was not in the habit of respecting people’s requests. Particularly when he was about to die of boredom.

_John_.

No reply.

_JOHN_ , the detective repeated. There was nothing but silence from the other end of the hallway.

**_JOHN_. ** Sherlock bellowed, grabbing a paperweight off the desk by the hallway entrance and chucking it down the darkened corridor. There was a glimmer of irritation at the other end, all puce green and oozy. Sherlock grinned.

********

“Excuse me just a moment,” Dr. John H. Watson said to his third patient of the day, an elderly woman with a bad case of loneliness rather than any actual complaint. John turned and rummaged around in a drawer.

_WHAT,_ John spat at Sherlock through the link. _I’m with a patient. And I thought I asked you to keep to yourself today. It’s bad enough when I’m dong paperwork. I can’t be having conversations in my head when I’m with a patient._ The doctor pulled out a notepad and pen, then turned back to the woman.

“Now, you say you’ve been having rather bad headaches, is that right, Mrs. Reichter?” John made a show of jotting down the notes on the tablet.

_I’m bored, John._

_Not my problem right now, Sherlock._

“Yes, that’s right. Every morning I wake up with a headache,” Mrs. Reichter said, nodding. “I take aspirin, but it doesn’t seem to do any good.”

_Oh, here comes the cat nurse,_ Sherlock muttered. _Lovely_.

John rolled his eyes.

“Are you listening, young man?”

John blinked, realized Sherlock’s comment had elicited a physical response, and stifled a defeated sigh. He smiled instead.

“Yes. Yes, sorry, just thinking. Do your headaches go away over the course of the day, or are they persistent?”

_She’s gotten a new one! That’s_ four _cats in her tiny flat, John. What is she thinking?_

_Sherlock, stop. Now._ John could hear the woman saying something, but it was drowned out by a rather long diatribe on the number of cats in a person’s household directly influencing the age at which they found their soulmate.

_I’ve been doing research, John._

“Shut up!” John hissed, and immediately realized he’d spoken aloud. The horrified expression on Mrs. Reichter’s face made the doctor want to sink into the floor.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…that is…” John sucked in a breath. “My mind is preoccupied today. My mate,” John was surprised at how easily that word came, “is in hospital. I realize that is no excuse for unprofessional behavior, and I will try to keep my mind on our appointment. Please, continue.”

“Oh, you poor dear!” Mrs. Reichter lay a wrinkled hand on John’s arm. “Say no more! When my Charlie was in hospital for the last time, it was awful! I could barely leave his bedside to use the toilet. Couldn’t imagine having to come here and listen to me prattle on about a silly headache.”

“Your headaches are clearly bothering you, Mrs. Reichter.” Not true, but he had to do something. “Let’s see what I can do to help.” John smiled warmly.  He was about to tell Sherlock to stay shut up, but the link was empty.

********

Sherlock heard the sound of a huge iron door banging shut immediately after John had told him to ‘shut up!’ The detective stood there, staring into the corridor, inspecting the cobblestone floor and wainscoting-covered walls for any indication that John was still there, at the other end, but even when he called, there was no response. And not just a lack of response on John’s part, but a deafening silence. As though John had closed a door on his end. But that couldn’t happen. John didn’t have a mind palace, he had no structure to work with to construct a door.  He spent the next several minutes poking around the entrance, seeing if there was a lever or something on his side he could use to open it back up. He slid his foot across the threshold and giant chains slithered out of the walls. Sherlock could still see partway down the corridor, but there was no way for him to get inside.

“Irritating,” he muttered, and flung himself down flat the bed, landing badly on a particularly large bruise on his left leg. The dull, infuriating ache that had plagued him all morning roared to life. Sherlock gritted his teeth. It was a stupid bruise, not like he’d ripped open the gunshot wound. He laid his hand over the injury, but even that was a bit too much at the moment.

“Oh, well done.” The cat nurse said. “I suppose I’ll have to get you some ice for that. Won’t be a moment.”

Sherlock suspected the ice would take a very long time to arrive.

********

John had done his best to listen to Mrs. Reichter, sending her to the chemist for some harmless, but rather impressive-sounding vitamins. She would be back to visit in a couple of weeks. As he walked down the hall from the exam room to his work area at the back of the surgery, pain shot down the outside of his left leg, and he nearly collapsed. John regained his balance and leaned heavily against the wall. Sarah hurried over when she heard John’s cry of surprise.

“Are you alright?” she asked. She placed a supportive hand under John’s elbow.

“I…I think so.” John rubbed his leg. He had no idea what would have caused his _good_ leg to suddenly go weak with pain.

“What happened?”

“No idea.” He was standing firmly now, and Sarah bent to retrieve the papers that had fallen to the floor.

“How many do you have today?” she asked as she handed them back, her mouth set in concern.

“I’d have to check. Done three. Probably five more if it’s a good day.”

“Let’s hope it’s a good day.” She took a few steps, then turned back. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, yeah?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Ta.”

Sarah smiled, concern written in her eyes, but she nodded firmly and returned to her office just down the hall.

********

There was a soft knock, then John poked his head into Sherlock’s hospital room, grinning.

“How did you do that?” Sherlock asked before the doctor even had time to close the door. The fact that John had been able to close the corridor that morning had driven the detective mad all day. It didn’t matter what he searched or how he went about it, there was absolutely no scientific precedent for what was so obviously happening between them. And so his only recourse was to ask directly. By the time John showed up, the frustration had reached lashing-out levels.

“What did I miss?”

“That door! The one you put across the hallway this morning. How did you do it?”

John shot a glance heavenward, then took a couple steps into the room.

“It’s nice to see you, too. Well, since you didn’t ask, my day was just fine, thanks. How was yours?”

“Irrelevant. How did you put up a door?”

“Sherlock, I have absolutely no idea what that even means.”

The detective stared at John intently for several long seconds.

_JOHN H. WATSON, CAN YOU HEAR ME?_ Sherlock shouted into the corridor. His voice echoed off the walls, bouncing back at him. He tried again. _JOHN, PLEASE ANSWER ME._

John stared uncomprehendingly back.

“You didn’t hear that, did you?”

“Hear what?”

“I was shouting at you at the top of my voice down the corridor, but you didn’t hear it.”

“Well you didn’t tell me that’s what you were doing, or I would have been listening.”

_CAN YOU HEAR ME?_ Sherlock called.

_No need to shout so loud, Sherlock. Why couldn’t I hear you before?_

“The door. You’d made some kind of door after I’d told you about the cat nurse acquiring another kitten. I couldn’t hear you after that, and it’s obvious you couldn’t hear me.”

“Well, that’s handy. No more interruptions! But I’d no idea I’d done it. Don’t know if I could do it again.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Sherlock said, the intensity of his request surprising even him. But it suddenly made sense why he’d been so irritable all afternoon. He’d been so accustomed to having John in his mind palace, and suddenly he _wasn’t_ anymore. Sherlock at first had placed a construct of John in his mind palace, for company. But he realized that as John had become more and more independent within the mind palace, it had ceased to be a construct and had, in fact, been John. It was impossible to tell when the transition was complete, it had happened so naturally. He reached out and took John’s hand. “Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that did it. Sherlock would direct, he would cajole, he would demand. But he never asked. Whatever had happened, and John still wasn’t sure exactly what that was, it had deeply affected the detective.

“One condition,” John said, his voice gentle and full of affection. “You cannot, and I mean it, _cannot_ bother me at the surgery unless it’s a life-or-death emergency.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock said, and nodded once. He didn’t even bother to haggle on what constituted a life-or-death emergency.

John lifted the detective’s hand to his lips and placed a kiss on his knuckles, wondering at how massive his hands were. They dwarfed his own, extending above his wrist as their fingers laced together. John wanted to pull him down into a kiss right then, but a nurse walked in with a perfunctory knock, and handed John the discharge papers.

She sniffed and glanced first at John, then at Sherlock, and then her attention landed on their intertwined fingers. Her eyes widened momentarily, then she shook her head.

“You’ll need to sign here, here, and here,” she said, pointing to the papers in John’s hand. “These are the home care instructions.” She paused for a moment before adding, “Good luck.”

********

Sherlock’s legs were stiff as he climbed laboriously up the stairs to 221B. By the time he got to his chair, they were about ready to give. But he wouldn’t let that happen. He had mastery of his transport, not the other way around, and as long as he was conscious, his legs would not give. He stood there, purposely testing, pushing, enduring. After about five minutes, he collapsed into his chair releasing a long sigh.

“Tea?” John asked. He’d waited those long five minutes until Sherlock had finally allowed himself to sit. John understood what the detective was doing, he’d done the same thing. Except it had never gotten any better for John. He’d collapsed again and again no matter how many times he stood there, willing his leg to hold him. Not that Sherlock had been shot in the leg, but climbing all those stairs while hemorrhaging blood had damaged the muscles, and it would take time for Sherlock to regain his strength.

“Tea,” Sherlock confirmed. His head fell back against the chair. It felt so good to be back. Even though it took thirty-five times too long to climb the stairs, even though he couldn’t stand in the sitting room for more than five minutes at a stretch after he’d climbed those stairs, there was a sense of peace in this place that he hadn’t found anywhere else. He lifted his head and watched John putter around the kitchen through half-open eyes. He was compact and solid, efficient in movement. Sherlock found himself wondering if that same efficiency would be evident in the bedroom as well.

John felt the blush creep up his neck as stray Sherlock-thoughts drifted through the link. It was a bit strange having images floating through his head from a different point of view, sort of like remembering having an out-of-body experience. But even that wasn’t quite right. The most strange, John thought, was watching himself undress from the outside.

“You’re thinking a bit loudly,” John said after a bit.

“You’re not complaining.”

“No…” John said. He heard the shift of weight, the creak of leather, and the soft footfalls of Sherlock’s stocking feet. Suddenly, the detective was wrapping his arms around John from behind, his nose buried in the crease where his neck met his shoulder.

Sherlock breathed in the scent of his mate, clean and soapy with just a hint of sandalwood. He pressed his lips against John’s pulse point before straightening and releasing the doctor. He could barely stand. John turned, saw the color drain from Sherlock’s face and instantly threw the detective’s arm over his shoulder to keep him upright.

“It’s going to take time,” John said. “Come on.” He led Sherlock to his bedroom, despite some token protests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really want to get anyone's hopes up for a stable posting schedule, but I'm fairly certain it won't be six months between postings again.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am constantly amazed by all the kudos, bookmarks and comments! THANK YOU ALL!!

John set Sherlock down on the bed and began tugging his jacket off. Why the idiot had insisted on wearing a suit home was incomprehensible to him, but he was not going to leave the hospital unless he was wearing it, so a suit it had to be.

Sherlock hissed as John pulled on the sleeve of the jacket, instinctively pulling his arm away.

“Sorry. Here, let me….” John pushed the shoulders of the jacket down so the sleeves would come away more easily.

“John, I’m perfectly capable…”

“No, you’re not. Not supposed to move your arm like that, yet. Bloody ridiculous wearing a suit. What’s wrong with just a shirt, eh?” John got the sleeve over the bandage on Sherlock’s bad arm, and the jacket finally came loose.

“It’s undignified,” Sherlock muttered, toeing off his shoes.

“Right, and being such a wanker that the nurses were cheering as you left hospital _is_ dignified, is that it?” John pulled the door to the wardrobe open and pulled out a hanger.

“They were so _dull_! What was I supposed to do, humor them?” Sherlock huffed. “Telling me about the weather as if it was of any use to me cooped up inside that dreadful room. Or, god forbid, trying to engage in conversation. If I have to hear about Connie Prince and her… what, makeovers? one more time I swear I’ll vomit.”

John shook his head, and tried to hide his smirk. He was half-amused at Sherlock’s petulance, but his attitude wasn’t going to be helpful. Speaking of unhelpful, the hanger seemed to be wrestling with him. Possibly because he wasn’t focused on his task. He finally wrangled the difficult hanger into place and hung the jacket up.

“You still want tea?” He shut the door of the wardrobe and turned. Sherlock lay on the bed, arms spread out to take up the entire mattress. He’d managed to pull off his socks and his toes were curled around the top of the footboard.  His eyes were closed and his breathing regular.

“Sherlock?” John murmured. The detective muttered something sleepily that John couldn’t decipher, and subsided. John felt the beginnings of a smile pull at the corners of his mouth, and didn’t fight it. After a few moments, he was grinning like an idiot, staring down at the sleeping detective. He stepped silently to the door, hand on the knob to leave, when Sherlock began to speak again. Perhaps he wasn’t asleep after all?

“No. No, that’s not…” Sherlock’s face was pinched, his eyebrows knit. John paused, waiting, listening. Small black tendrils of fear began to seep through link, and the base of John’s skull began to tingle. One of those awful half-awake nightmares, then. Those were the worst kind, because they felt so real, yet you were aware of it being simply a dream, and couldn’t force your eyes open to confirm your suspicion.

John returned to the bed and sat down on the edge, watching Sherlock for a moment before smoothing his fringe away from his forehead. Sherlock’s expression relaxed almost instantly. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, then stilled. The black fear prying at the link receded, and the tingling stopped.

“Hang the tea,” John whispered, and pulled off his own shoes. Nightmares were something he was too familiar with, and if he calmed them in his mate, well, the tea could bloody well wait.

It was quite the process to get the blankets pulled out from under the sleeping detective, but John managed without waking him completely. He briefly considered relieving Sherlock of his trousers, but thought that might be a bit too much temptation for one day, and the detective desperately needed the restorative sleep of his own bed.

He didn’t even have to think about how their bodies fit together as he lay down. His head came to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder as though they were made to fit together, and in a way he supposed this was true. John hated sleeping on his stomach, it made him feel flat-footed and unprepared, so he lay on his back, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders. As though by instinct, the detective’s hand came to rest on John’s chest, and his came up to cover it.

Sherlock breathed deeply, and John felt him relax further as he exhaled. John wondered at that for a moment, how a man who had told him that bonding was not really his area had immediately relaxed as John settled in next to him. That their closeness was a comfort instead of a burden.

He felt his eyelids grow heavy, in spite of it being only about eight in the evening. He didn’t fight it as sleep finally descended on him, too.

*******

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, dammit. He’d meant to sleep _with_ John, not merely next to him. But it was comforting, the weight against his side, blond hair tickling his cheek, the undeniable way John resembled a radiator. He was half-tempted to throw the blankets off the bed entirely because John was so warm.

Sherlock lay very still, cataloguing every minute detail. It was what, three in the morning? He had time enough before John woke to memorize it all. And though he knew they were mates, and would be together for the rest of their lives, it felt as though he would require these detailed memories. Why, he wasn’t certain, but he couldn’t shake the feeling, or the creeping unease that followed it.

 John breathed evenly, peacefully. Sherlock remembered nights when he would hear John wake with a shout and he would sit on his stool in the kitchen warring with himself over whether or not he should go check on him. Honestly, he still didn’t really know if John would have appreciated his concern or been embarrassed. Perhaps that was something he should ask at some point, because while they would obviously be sharing a bed, Sherlock would not always be in it. Some habits were too well ingrained.

Although, he rather enjoyed this. He’d never felt so calm simply lying in bed before. Usually he only fell into bed when his eyes would no longer stay open or when he was trying to chase his demons off with whatever chemical happened to be available. Sherlock frowned. That was the first time that had even crossed his mind since he’d moved to Baker Street. Well, except during that idiotic ‘drugs bust’ right before John had moved in. He glanced over at the man sleeping peacefully against his shoulder. His sandy blond hair, already showing traces of grey, the well-muscled shoulders that were evident even under his shirt. He looked so much younger when he slept, while the cares of consciousness were kept at bay. Sherlock bent and placed a kiss on John’s temple.

_Thank you,_ he whispered down the corridor that connected him to John.

John, for his part, remained blissfully unaware.

An hour later, Sherlock was itching to get out of bed. He couldn’t stand to be still any more, and his arm was falling asleep, and his wound ached. He slithered out from underneath John, extracting his good arm as discreetly as he could. John would be angry with him if he was woken up now. The doctor had tried to explain about sleep schedules, but Sherlock had found it all quite dull. The only thing that had stuck, in the end, was that John didn’t enjoy being woken up before about six in the morning.

He managed to successfully maneuver out of bed. Stripping off the wrinkled mess of his clothing, however, proved to be a bit more challenging. His injured arm had grown stiff as he slept, and he could barely move it. Made buttons and sleeves incredibly tedious, but he accomplished the task. The trousers were not nearly so difficult, but trying to pull his pyjamas out of the chest of drawers without the drawer squeaking was a singular torture he did not wish to repeat. And then, trying to get his injured arm through the t-shirt sleeve was a different kind of agony all together.

By the time he was changed, he almost felt as though he should lay back down. His stamina should have returned by now, if it had just been simple blood loss. But the physical exertion he’d had to endure while losing blood made the recovery slower. By how much was difficult to say. Another day, at least. He could tell that by the ache that still pulsed in his legs.

He shuffled out of the bedroom, made the obligatory stop at the toilet, then continued into the kitchen. As he flipped on the light, his phone chimed. It was either Lestrade – doubtful, since John had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to give them any new cases until Sherlock was recovered – or his brother, which was far more likely. He thought about simply ignoring it, but two seconds later the phone chimed again.

He was sending back-to-back texts. Why was he sending back-to-back texts? Why didn’t he just call? He much preferred to call. More to deduce in a voice. It’s why Sherlock always texted. Sherlock closed his eyes and hung his head back as the reason dawned on him. John had told the hospital staff he was Sherlock’s mate so he could get into the hospital room. Nevermind the fact that it was _true_ , he suspected his brother was still going to be a nuisance about it. But why text? And why at four in the morning? Sherlock scanned through possible scenarios, and came upon one that answered everything: Mycroft was several time zones away, most likely America, and Sherlock kept odd hours, so the time difference wouldn’t matter.

Now the question became: would he rip the plaster off all at once, or let it hang on until it simply washed away on its own?

The phone chimed again, and Sherlock realized that waiting was not going to be a viable option. Mycroft was going to be obnoxious until Sherlock either responded, or he would arrive unannounced sometime in the next few days. Dealing with it now was the only way to keep at least some semblance of control over the situation.

He picked up his phone, and thumbed through his messages. He’d already missed two while he’d been lying in bed, memorizing the way John’s body fit against his. The skin where John had been pressed against him seemed to warm as he thought about it.

There were seven messages in all, the tone bordering on frantic. Well, frantic for Mycroft, anyway.

Is there something you neglected to mention, dear brother? - MH

Heard some news, wonder if you’d confirm – MH

I’ve seen the hospital files, dear brother. Will you confirm? – MH

John H. Watson is listed as your mate. Is this a convenience? – MH

I have requisitioned the security footage of the hospital’s public areas. Dr. Watson is quite devoted, isn’t he? – MH

Mummy and Dad will be ever so pleased. – MH

I'm sure Dr. Watson will be thrilled to meet them. - MH

Sherlock groaned. Of course he’d have to tell his parents, but did his meddling, control freak brother need to remind him? Sherlock jabbed out a reply.

News confirmed. Propose deadline for informing others in three months’ time. – SH

He thrust the phone into his dressing gown pocket. The last thing he wanted to think about now was some tiresome ‘affair’ that his mother would insist on hosting. Not only that, but the entire ruse about him needing John to help with rent would come completely unraveled. The Holmes estate was not exactly known for its modest size. Not that his parents lived there, but that’s where ‘affairs’ were held, parties thrown, dances took place. And where they would no doubt want John to go to ‘meet the family.’ His phone chimed again, and Sherlock almost threw the thing across the kitchen. Instead, he glanced at the message. And John thought he had no self-control. Ha.

Congratulations. Ceremony and legalization can be accomplished in three months, however our parents will need to be informed in a timelier manner. – MH

Now Sherlock really did want to pitch his phone across the room. Ceremony, indeed. Why did it matter? Couldn’t they just _be_? Why did it have to involve other people?

No ceremony. – SH

Speak with John before you rush to that decision. – MH

What? Of course John wouldn’t want a bloody ceremony with vapid conversation and awful food and… and they’d just confirmed their Names three days ago! _But you’ve been living together for over three months, now_ , his inner voice chided. _Six months between meeting and legalization is quite a bit longer than average, and who but the two of you know that you waited so long to exchange Names?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared at his phone. Stupid Mycroft and his stupid meddling. He opened the fridge and shoved his phone into the butter compartment in the door, next to a few toes he’d been saving. He removed the toes, grabbed a plate off the dish rack, a scalpel from his disinfecting tray, and set about skinning them.

********

John blinked a few times in the thin morning light, stretched luxuriantly, then sat bolt upright.

_Shit, am I late? What time is it?_ he thought, scanning the room for a way to tell what time it was.

It was the same frantic thirty seconds that always plagued him when he woke without an alarm. After his initial shot of adrenaline, he flopped back down on the bed, remembering that it was Sunday and the surgery was closed. And then he remembered that he was sleeping in his clothes in Sherlock’s bed. Returning to sleep after that was virtually impossible. He needed a shower.

He sat up again, throwing the blankets off and setting his feet on the floor. He rubbed his hands over his face in an effort to dispel the last of the drowsiness. He also needed to shave.

_It’s 7:43. Why?_ Sherlock’s voice floated lazily into the back of John’s mind.

_Thought I was going to be late for work,_ John sent back. _Surgery’s closed Sundays, though._

He picked up his shoes, and padded out to the kitchen.

Sherlock was hunched over his microscope, peering at a slide. There were red lumps on a plate next to him that John really didn’t want to identify.

“Feeling better this morning?” John asked, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he passed.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied. He didn’t look up from his microscope.

“Right. Glad to hear it. Good.” John patted the detective’s shoulder twice before shrugging and climbing the stairs to his bedroom to retrieve his dressing gown and towel. What had he expected, really? Sherlock was still Sherlock. His moods and habits wouldn’t change just because they’d confessed Names. But it was still just a bit disappointing.

********

John was at the table in the sitting room and had just logged into his email to see if there was anything interesting. Mostly junkmail, typical. There was a message from Harry saying that she and Clara were trying a different therapist. John wished her luck, but he didn’t personally think it would help all that much. The ‘platonic therapy’ she’d received as a teen now made it virtually impossible for her to have a close bond with her mate. They’d been to half a dozen therapists in the seven years they’d been together, but nothing seemed to help. Bloody shame.

There was a second message from Lestrade, asking when John thought Sherlock would be up to working on a couple cold cases he had lying around. ‘You know, just to keep him sane.’ John snorted, and wrote back that Sherlock could have them on Tuesday, if they were delivered. Otherwise John could pick them up on Wednesday, as he only had a half-shift that day.

“What do you think of having a bonding ceremony?” Sherlock asked as John hit ‘Send.’

The question came apropos of nothing.  John had thought about bonding ceremonies in an abstract kind of way, of course, but to be faced with the real-life immediacy of the question caught him off guard.

“Uh, well, I hadn’t…really. I mean, we’ll have one. No way I'd miss seeing you dressed to the nines. But I hadn’t really thought about the particulars.”

Sherlock was silent. There were tiny orange snippets of confusion bleeding through the link, but they dissipated before John could get a decent read on what had confused the detective.

“What do _you_ think?” John continued, genuinely uncertain of what Sherlock would say.

“A ceremony is nothing short of frivolous; an excuse for those so inclined to wear expensive clothes, drink too much, and dance badly in celebration of two people legalizing a biological function.” Sherlock did not look up from the microscope as he said this, but he didn’t really need to. He could feel the anger coming down the hallway in waves, the heat of it almost palpable.

“So that’s all this is, then.” John gestured between them. “A ‘biological function?’” John watched Sherlock very carefully. He was going to give him the benefit of the doubt for about three more seconds.

“Of course bonding is a biological function. You certainly don’t ascribe any sort of mysticism to it, do you? I thought you were more rational than that.”

“But is that _all_ it is, Sherlock? Just biology?” John stood and closed the lid of his laptop very, very carefully. He allowed himself several deep breaths. It was so much more than hormones and physical compatibility for him. He thought Sherlock had begun to understand the emotional part of it, too, but apparently not.

“I don’t understand the question,” Sherlock said, and finally looked at John. The detective knew he was angry, but he didn’t realize how angry until he saw the fists shoved into pockets, the jaw clenched, the nostrils flared. Sherlock might have been terrified for a split second when faced with that amount of wrath. He swallowed before continuing, which John was obviously waiting for him to do. “Bonding has been reliably shown to be a function of basic human biology. While scientists have yet to understand the intricacies of Naming in teens, it is linked with the average age of completed sexual maturity in both males and females.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m a doctor, Sherlock, I _know_ all of that. I…” he stopped, shaking his head. “You know what? I’m going out. If you figure it out, let me know.” He tapped his temple.

With that, John stalked across the sitting room, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock sat on his stool in the kitchen, blinking after his mate. He was completely mystified by John’s anger for nearly ten minutes, and then it dawned on him.

_This is about…sentiment, isn’t it?_ he asked tentatively.

_Yep_. John’s voice was short, and the heat of anger had only marginally lessened in intensity. Sherlock edged into the room with the corridor, and saw a very angry John Watson sitting in his armchair in what had been his room.

_And for you, the ceremony is about…declaring your sentiments for the other person._ It was such a foreign concept for him, to think about the need to declare such emotions to large groups of people because it was pleasurable to do so.

_Very good. Full marks_. John uncrossed his arms. The ferocity of his anger had begun to abate a bit.

_At the risk of angering you further, I don’t quite see the point. The two mates know each other’s sentiments, why speak them aloud to an audience?_

_To answer that to your satisfaction, I’d probably have to do several weeks’ worth of research on the history of bonding ceremonies in British culture. Not something I have the time or inclination to do. You’ll probably do it anyway, later, if it bothers you so much._ John stood and began slowly pacing the carpet in front of his chair. _It’s about sharing the joy of being bonded. But I suppose you wouldn’t understand that. But you have to know, Sherlock, that I –_

There was a terrific explosion that John heard all the way through the link, and then pain. His arm, his left leg, and something in his ribs.

_Sherlock?_ John called down the link. No answer. _SHERLOCK!_ John started running down the street toward 221B.


	27. Chapter 27

No response. No matter how loudly John called across the link, he received no response from Sherlock. He could almost feel the adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream as he shut out all the various nightmare scenarios that were shoving themselves to the front of his mind. He shook his head to clear it, using the adrenaline to focus on what had to be done. He ran full tilt back toward Baker Street, stopping traffic with sheer force of will, several sharp slaps to car bonnets and a few choice words. He had to slow down as he entered the dust cloud that rolled down Baker Street, coating everything in a fine layer of concrete powder. He pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth to keep the worst of the debris out. What in the name of hell had happened?

Chunks of brick and concrete littered the road, car alarms blared, people were crying, some were screaming. He had to walk, now, picking his way through the wreckage so he wouldn’t end up sprawled in the road, unable to help anyone. His vision narrowed, focused on the path in front of him that would lead to Sherlock and whatever awaited him at their flat. He tried not to draw parallels between this scene and countless others four thousand miles away. He was in the middle of London, not on the killing fields of Afghanistan. As he approached, he could see that the building across from theirs had come apart at the seams, water dripping from severed pipes, smoke curling from the basement. He drug his eyes across the street to 221.

The awning over Speedy’s was hanging in tatters off the aluminium frame, the plate glass windows underneath completely missing. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the door to their flat was undamaged, and he had to rummage in his pocket for the key. He got the door opened and took the stairs two at a time. The door to their flat was still shut, was that a good thing? Did it make a difference?

He opened it, and found Sherlock lying face down in front of the couch surrounded by broken glass. He couldn’t swallow for a moment before instinct kicked in. He fell to his knees next to his mate and pressed two fingers against Sherlock’s neck, and… there. There it was. The pulse was strong and steady, and he leaned back to sit on his heels and press his forearm to his temple.

Captain John H. Watson got to work. He ticked off his triage list as he assessed Sherlock for injury. Extremities appeared to be intact, and he nodded approvingly when he discovered that Sherlock’s gunshot wound had not re-opened. The detective groaned when John pressed along his ribcage.

“Easy,” he said. “You gonna wake up for me, now?”

He eased back, watching Sherlock’s face as it twisted in pain. John could feel a dull ache in his own ribs as Sherlock tried push himself off the floor.

“What…” Sherlock murmured.

John put his arm around Sherlock, trying to help him into a sitting position. It was an awkward few moments trying to prop the detective up against the couch, but he managed.

“Open your eyes for me,” John commanded.

Sherlock’s eyelids rose out of sync, his eyes rolling up a bit as he struggled. Finally, he blinked normally, and his eyes focused on John’s.

“Well done,” John said, and a small smile played with the corners of his mouth. “How about talking. What day is it?”

“I think you told me it was Sunday earlier,” Sherlock said, his consonants a bit muzzy.

“Right. Yes. Good.” John held up three fingers. “Count.”

“Three,” Sherlock said, a note of petulance creeping into his voice.

John nodded, and allowed the smile that had been toying with the edges of his lips to pull them into a small quick grin.

“Well, you seem to be fine. Probably have a headache later. How’s the rest of you?”

“Sore,” Sherlock replied, sighing.

John let out a bark of laughter before he could stop himself.

“Well, that might be an understatement. Are you going to fall asleep again?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Right. Here, let’s get you up on the couch,” John half-lifted Sherlock until he was sitting against one of the arms of the couch, a pillow wedged in to protect his bruised ribs.

As John was straightening up, there was a knock on the door.

“Oo-oo,” came the familiar call.

“Mrs. Hudson,” John and Sherlock said in unison. “Thank god.”

********

The sitting room was gloomy with the front windows boarded up. Sherlock turned on every single light and the shadows still wouldn’t dissipate. He brought in a lamp from the bedroom, which helped a bit, but it wasn’t right. He flopped into his chair and drew his knees up to his chin, staring into the kitchen over John’s chair. He ignored the pain of his bruised ribs, the ever-present ache of his wounded arm. It was becoming bloody ridiculous the amount of injury he had sustained. Therefore, he would ignore it completely. At least until it began to seriously inhibit his ability to function.

He watched John putter in the kitchen making tea. They hadn’t revisited the conversation they’d started before the building across the street blew up the day before. They had barely spoken at all, really, and Sherlock found himself grasping at the few brief flickers of memory or thought that came drifting down the hallway. And was both relieved when they came and disgusted with himself that he’d become so dependent on them.

Sherlock had not actually seen what had happened across the street. Gas leak, it said on the telly. John thought it looked like a tank had driven down the street. He hadn’t said, but every time he stared at the plywood over the front windows, Sherlock caught the tail end of a memory of brown mud-brick buildings and searing heat. It did not take a genius to figure that one out. He was insatiably curious about the particulars, however.

 _John, could you play over the part again when you entered Baker Street?_ he asked, for perhaps the fourth time since regaining consciousness.

 _I really don’t see what you’re going to get out of it,_ John replied. His voice was tired, and it was mirrored in his eyes.

 _It’s for the Work._ Sherlock paused, then added aloud, “Please?”

“No,” John said. He carried two mugs of tea into the room and set one beside the detective’s chair.  “I can’t do it again, Sherlock. And I won’t. It isn’t like watching a film on the backs of my eyelids. I can smell the smoke…” He trailed off, unwilling to put the rest of his thoughts into words.

Sherlock almost insisted. He was a fraction of a second away from imperiously demanding what he wanted. His mouth was even open and waiting for a word to pass his lips. But the way John was clutching his mug of tea in both hands, staring into its depths, made him pause. He snapped his jaw shut and settled for frowning at John’s forehead.

 John lifted his eyes from his tea when Sherlock’s retort didn’t come. His eyes widened a bit as he realized that the detective was not going to force the issue. The knot that had been slowly tightening and twisting in his gut loosened and almost came apart altogether. It wasn’t that Sherlock did not care. It was never about not caring. John realized that he had a long way to go in interpreting what Sherlock said, but he would never again mistake Sherlock’s disregard of ‘sentiment’ for his lack of care.

It was such a small distinction. And for anyone but Sherlock Holmes, it would be insignificant.

Sherlock’s frown deepened as John’s eyes softened around the edges and he sat back in his chair, his fingers still curled around his mug.

“Thank you.” John took a sip of his tea.

John wished he could preserve the look of utter confusion on Sherlock’s face for posterity. It was unlikely to ever cross his features again.

“What for?”

John shrugged. How could he put what he was thinking into words without looking like a complete idiot? How sad was it that knowing your soulmate actually cared made you want to say ‘thank you’? What kind of fucked up was that?

The kind the two of them shared, that’s what. And as John thought back, he began to pick out the moments that Sherlock had betrayed his feeling in ways only he could. Gestures that could not be simply explained away by ‘biological function,’ that mess of hormonal responses between mates. Maybe it wasn’t as twisted as it felt right now.

The intercom for their flat buzzed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” The voice floated up the stairs, and Sherlock visibly cringed. John would recognize that voice anywhere: The elder Holmes brother.

 _He agreed to three months_ , John heard Sherlock mutter in the back of his mind.

 _Three months what?_ John asked.

_Nevermind._

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said icily, and John turned to see the man standing in the doorway, Mrs. Hudson hovering behind. An umbrella was hooked over one arm, and he held a brown leather briefcase in his hand. Mrs. Hudson backed away and slowly descended the stairs as Mycroft entered and hung his umbrella on the coat stand.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft returned, inclining his head ever so slightly. He turned to John, and out of reflex the doctor stood, assuming a parade rest stance. He felt Mycroft’s eyes assessing him, and perhaps he imagined it, but felt he was found wanting. The elder Holmes ran his tongue along the front of his bottom teeth and grimaced.

“Dr. Watson. I suppose congratulations are in order.” Mycroft offered his hand, and John took it on instinct. It was cold, firm and obviously practiced. The grip was just tight enough that John was vaguely uncomfortable, but not painful in any way. The handshake of a man who is used to being the most powerful person in a room.

 _Congratulations for what?_ John asked Sherlock as he released Mycroft’s hand.

 _Our Name exchange_ , Sherlock replied, stifling a sigh.

_Should I ask how he knows?_

_Do you really want to know?_

_Probably not_.

Mycroft’s eyes darted between the two, and John was terrified for a moment that he could somehow hear the conversation through the link. The elder Holmes raised an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction and slid easily into John’s chair, setting the briefcase on his lap. John bit his lips together, eyebrows dancing in disbelief, and sat on the coffee table.

“Why are you really here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked and rolled out of his chair to retrieve his violin from the stand beside the bookshelf. “You didn’t fly all the way here from Washington just to offer your congratulations.”

“Am I not allowed to be concerned for my little brother’s well-being? Such a horrible accident they had across the street. Luckily the building was empty.”

“I’m obviously fine, thank you _so_ much for your concern,” Sherlock spat as he flopped back into his chair. He began idly plucking discordant notes.

Mycroft sighed. John might not be a genius detective, but he knew when to leave well-enough alone, and this was one of those times.

“Yes, the ulterior motive, since I cannot simply be concerned.” Mycroft pulled a file folder from his briefcase. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant found dead at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in. The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington Programme, it’s called.” Mycroft opened the folder and began paging through the contents. “We think West had a copy of the plans on a memory stick. A memory stick which is now missing. We can’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Stuff I’ve got on is just too big, can’t spare the time.”

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.”

Sherlock didn’t respond for a moment, and John got the distinct color of irritation squeezing in around the edges of the link. John almost interjected at that point, but honestly Mycroft probably had it coming to him.

“How’s the _diet_ ,” Sherlock said finally, and John was a bit let down. He’d been expecting some grand deductive display and instead got…this?

“ _Fine_ ,” Mycroft responded, visibly bristling. He turned to John. “Perhaps you can get through to him.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do, exactly.

“What?”

“I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent,” Mycroft said, and ran his tongue along his bottom teeth again.

“Well, if you’re so keen, why don’t you investigate,” Sherlock shot back, plucking odd notes on the violin as he spoke.

“Oh, no. I can’t possibly. Not with the Korean elections so…” Mycroft stopped speaking just as John was actually becoming interested. “Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” He smiled humorlessly, and John was certain he should forget whatever it was he had almost heard. “Regardless, there is another matter that does indeed require your urgent attention.” He focused on Sherlock, his eyes cold. “The Name Exchange gala that Mummy and Dad will insist on hosting.”

Sherlock exploded. He was a flurry of limbs, scrabbling to get his violin put away before it found itself crashing over Mycroft’s head. He had _told_ Mycroft to wait. It wasn’t the right time, maybe it would never be the right time, but this… _this_ was unconscionable. He thought about dragging his brother out of the flat by his ridiculous umbrella-encrusted tie, but that might result in manslaughter and Sherlock was not keen on being arrested. But he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as that meddling, loathsome brother.

“What the hell?” John said. He took a few steps after Sherlock, but stopped when the bedroom door slammed so hard a plate fell off the shelf and shattered on the kitchen floor. The physical door was enough of a barrier, and John didn’t dare try the link for fear he would be engulfed in a deluge of rage.

“I was afraid of this,” Mycroft murmured, almost to himself.

“Are you going to explain what’s going on, or is this some high-level government secret too?” John clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, looking down his nose at the seated Mycroft Holmes.

“I believe that’s a conversation best had with your mate,” Mycroft said. The word ‘mate’ seemed to have left a bad taste in the elder Holmes’ mouth, and he grimaced.

“Ta. You’re so incredibly helpful.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to come to an agreement. You will talk to him about the Programme, yes? All the particulars are here.” Mycroft held up a file folder. “And about visiting Mummy.”

John simply glared at him.

“I think you should go,” he said, and indicated the door with his right hand.

Mycroft stood, picked up his briefcase and gathered his umbrella from the coat stand.

“Goodbye, Doctor Watson. See you _very_ soon.”

“I doubt it.”

Mycroft’s smile was not reassuring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft means well. He really does. But he goes about it all backwards!
> 
> THANK you, all of you, for all the Kudos, Comments, Bookmarks, and Subscriptions. I love you all!!


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